Oh me, for the day when the whole city shall be bare and the
chambers unroofed--and every cranny visible to the Light above, from the
Forum to the Lupanar!
Ethel takes up the pen. "My dear uncle," she says, "while Clive is
sketching out of window, let me write you a line or two on his paper,
though I know you like to hear no one speak but him. I wish I could draw
him for you as he stands yonder, looking the picture of good health, good
spirits, and good humour. Everybody likes him. He is quite unaffected;
always gay; always pleased. He draws more and more beautifully every day;
and his affection for young Mr. Ridley, who is really a most excellent
and astonishing young man, and actually a better artist than Clive
himself, is most romantic, and does your son the greatest credit. You
will order Clive not to sell his pictures, won't you? I know it is not
wrong, but your son might look higher than to be an artist. It is a rise
for Mr. Ridley, but a fall for him. An artist, an organist, a pianist,
all these are very good people, but you know not de notre monde, and
Clive ought to belong to it.
Pages:
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670