"I don't paint pretty pictures," he said indifferently. "If you want to be done all rose-colour and illusion, you ought to go to one of the lady-painters. You said the other picture was ugly, too, and yet you liked it—or said you did."
"It was different—it was not brutal like this!"
"Perhaps you can't judge it very well, at this stage."
"Yes, I can see what you mean to make it—something that I would never in the world exhibit, or even hang up anywhere. Perhaps it's because it's so big and—pretentious."
"I thought that dress demanded a big canvas," said Basil ironically.
He laid down his palette and brushes carefully, definitively, and said:
"We won't go on with it."
"I didn't mean that," said Isabel quickly.
She was standing near him, holding up the sweeping velvet train with both hands, on which the diamonds glittered coldly.
"No, but I mean it," said Basil.
She looked at him, dropped her train, and moved to put one hand on his arm.
"Don't be silly, Basil, or sulky. I daresay I'm wrong, and it will come out all right. I know I oughtn't to criticise"
"No, it won't come out right. I was a fool
