"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. We must never let your father know we went. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. He looked half at her and half at the sky. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will. ’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. ’ ‘It is money you mean, no?’ Melusine asked with scorn.
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