So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. His eyes never left her face. And it is not at all his affair. Yet I shall think of you to-day. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. White would not approve of callers. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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