” She kissed him passionately, and ran lightly upstairs. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. It always comes out sooner or later. But none ever puts his foot on this boat. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. "But you do agitate me so much.
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