I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner.
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