"How do you do, Monsieur Dumas," the professor said in what I thought was a rather soft voice. He extended a long hand with fingers that enveloped my father's hand when they shook. He wore a beautifully hand crafted silver ring set with a turquoise on his pinky.
"Fine, thank you, and thank you for coming and agreeing to consider my daughter. May I present my daughter Ruby," Daddy said proudly, turning toward me.
Because of his narrow cheeks and the way his forehead sloped sharply back into his hairline, Professor Ashbury's eyes appeared larger than they were. Dark brown eyes with specks of gray, they seized onto whatever he was gazing at and held so firmly he looked mesmerized. Right now they fixed so tightly on my face, I couldn't help but be selfconscious.
"Hello," I said quickly.
He combed his long thin fingers through the wild strands of his thin light brown and gray hair, driving the strands off' his forehead, and flashed a smile, his eyes flickering for a moment and then growing serious again.
"Where have you had your art instruction up until now, mademoiselle?" he inquired.
"Just a little in public school," I replied.
"Public school?" he said, turning down the corners of his mouth as if I had said "reform school." He turned to my father for an explanation.
"That's why I thought it would be of great benefit to her at this time to have private instruction from a reputable and highly respected teacher," my father said.
"I don't understand, monsieur. I was told your daughter has had some of her works accepted by one of our art galleries. I just assumed . ."
"That's true," my father replied, smiling. "I will show you one of her pictures. Actually, the only one in my possession at the moment."
"Oh?" Professor Ashbury said, a look of perplexity on his face. "Only one?"
"That's another story, Professor. First things first. Right this way," he instructed, and led the professor to his office where my picture of the blue heron still remained on the floor against his desk.
Professor Ashbury stared at it a moment and then stepped forward to pick it up.
"May I?" he asked Daddy.
"By all means, please."
Professor Ashbury lifted the picture and held it out at arm's length for a moment. Then he nodded and put it down slowly.
"I like that," he said, then turned to me. "You caught a sense of movement. It has a realistic feel and yet. . . there's something mysterious about it. There's an intelligent use of shading. The setting is rather well captured, too. . . . Have you spent time in the bayou?"
"I lived there all of my life," I said.
Professor Ashbury's eyes lit with interest. He shook his head and turned to Daddy. "Forgive me, monsieur," he said, "I don't mean to sound like an interrogator, but I thought you had introduced Ruby as your daughter."
"I did and she is," Daddy said. "She didn't live with me until now."
"I see," he said, gazing at me again. He didn't seem shocked or surprised by the information, but he felt he had to continue to justify his interest in our personal lives. "I like to know something about my students, especially the ones I take on privately. Art, real art, comes from inside," he said, placing the palm of his right hand over his heart. "I can teach her the mechanics, but what she brings to the canvas is something no teacher can create or teach. She brings herself, her life, her experience, her vision," he said. "Do you understand, monsieur?"
"Er. . yes," Daddy said. "Of course. You can learn all about her if you like. The main question is do you believe as some already have exhibited they do, that she has talent?"
"Absolutely," Professor Ashbury said. He looked at my picture again and then turned back to me. "She might be the best student I've ever had," he added.
My mouth gaped open and my father's face lit with pride. He beamed a broad smile and nodded.
"I thought so, even though I'm no art expert."
r /> "It doesn't take an art expert to see what potential lies here," Professor Ashbury said, looking at my painting once more.
"Let me show you the studio then," my father said, and led Professor Ashbury and me down the corridor. The professor was very impressed, as anyone would be, I imagined.
"It's better than what I have at the college," he whispered as if he didn't want the college trustees to hear.
"When I believe in something or someone, Professor Ashbury, I commit myself fully," my father declared.