)
"But, uncle dear, I am becoming so dreadfully bored!"
"That sounds final," sighed the old man, helping himself to the
_haricots verts_. (The girl ate positively nothing.) "But it seems
odd that you can't go about your affairs after my own reasonable
manner."
"I am only twenty."
The old man's shoulders rose and fell resignedly.
"No man has an answer for that."
"I promise to tell you everything that happens; by telegraph."
"That's small comfort. Imagine receiving a telegram early in the
morning, when a man's brain is without invention or coherency of
thought! I would that you were back home with your father. I might
sleep o' nights, then."
"I have so little amusement!"
"You work three hours a day and earn more in a week than your father
and I do in a month. Yours is a very unhappy lot."
"I hate the smell of paints; I hate the studio."
"And I suppose you hate your fame?" acridly.
"Bah! that is my card to a living. The people I meet bore me."
"Not satisfied with common folks, eh? Must have kings and queens to
talk to?"
"I only want to live abroad, and you and father will not let
me,"--petulantly.
The music started up, and I heard no more. Occasionally the girl
glanced at me and smiled in a friendly fashion.
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