He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away.
Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas.

"A trick picture," was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick.
He did not know painting.

He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far.

He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table.

Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food.
An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books.