"Child, is this painting really done by you?"
Just as Ye Xiao finished watching the performance and stood up from the sofa ready to leave, Sun Daoan approached her with the Autumn Bamboo Painting she had made.
"Yes, it's my work."
Ye Xiao nodded generously in acknowledgment.
She knew her painting was not very good, but what she painted was her own creation, and no matter how poor it might be, she would never deny it. Although it was somewhat embarrassing for the person who taught her to paint, what did it matter? After all, that person had been dead for a thousand years, and the dead have no need for face.
"Is this truly your work?"
Another elder stepped forward, his face full of astonishment, and asked.
"Child, you couldn't be deceiving us, could you? How could someone so young possess such masterful painting skills? Did you have someone else do it for you?"
"Could you tell us who that painter might be?"
