Upon his art he had a right to speak, and the keen intellectual interest she betrayed in his impressions--the three days impressions of a painter--stirred and flattered him.
But he made a great many rather ludicrous mistakes, inevitable to one who had just taken a first canter through the vast field of French art; mistakes in names and dates, in the order of men and generations.
And when he made a blunder he was apt to stick to it absurdly, or excuse it elaborately.

She soon gave up correcting him, even in the gentle, hesitating way she at first made use of.

She said nothing; but there was sometimes mischief, perhaps mockery, in her eyes.

Fenwick knew it; and would either make fresh plunges, or paint on in a sulky silence.
How on earth had she guessed the authorship of those articles in the _Mirror_?
He supposed he must have talked the same kind of stuff to her.

At any rate, she had made him feel in some intangible way that it seemed to her a dishonourable thing to be writing anonymous attacks upon a body from whom you were asking, or intending to ask, exhibition space for your pictures and the chance of selling your work.