The things we do!

I don't say
remember me to my brother, as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu, mon
fils! je t'embrasse!--and am always my Clive's affectionate father,
T. N.'"
"Isn't he a noble old trump?" That point had been settled by the young
men any time these three years. And now Mr. J. J. remarked that when
Clive had read his father's letter once, then he read Ethel's over again,
and put it in his breast-pocket, and was very disturbed in mind that day,
pishing and pshawing at the statue-gallery which they went to see at the
Museo.
"After all," says Clive, "what rubbish these second-rate statues are!
what a great hulking abortion is this brute of a Farnese Hercules!
There's only one bit in the whole gallery that is worth a
twopenny-piece."
It was the beautiful fragment called Psyche. J. J. smiled as his comrade
spoke in admiration of this statue--in the slim shape, in the delicate
formation of the neck, in the haughty virginal expression, the Psyche is
not unlike the Diana of the Louvre--and the Diana of the Louvre we have
said was like a certain young lady.


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