JIM LASCELLES MAKES HIS APPEARANCE
Miss Araminta Perry, Hill Street, London, W., _to_ Miss Elizabeth
Perry, The Parsonage, Slocum Magna, North Devon.
DEAREST MUFFIN,--_London is a_ much _larger place than Slocum
Magna, but I don’t think it is nearly so nice. I think if I had not
got Tobias with me, sometimes I might be very miserable._
_First I must tell you about my new frock. It is a lilac one, and
has been copied from a famous picture of Great Grandmamma Dorset
by a painter named Gainsborough--I mean that Gainsborough copied
Great Grandmamma Dorset, not that he made my frock. Madame Pelissier
made my frock. It is not quite so nice as your mauve was, but it is_
much _admired by nearly everybody in London. When I walk out in
it people often turn round to look at it._
_I think the people here are sometimes rather rude, but Lord Cheriton
says I am not to mind, as people are like that in London. Lord
Cheriton is a sweet. Aunt Caroline says he is much older than he
looks, but Miss Burden doesn’t think so. Aunt Caroline must be right,
because she is always right in everything, but Miss Burden is just
a sweet. She comes to my room every night to see if I am miserable.
She is very good to Tobias. Aunt Caroline says she is too romantic.
She had a love affair when she was younger. Lord Cheriton says I
must be careful that I don’t have one, as they are so bad for the
complexion. He says he knows as a fact that all the men in London are
untrustworthy. He says oldish men, particularly if they have been
married twice, are very dangerous. As Dearest Papa is not here to
advise me, Lord Cheriton acts as he thinks Dearest Papa would like
him to. He goes out with me everywhere to see that I come to no harm.
Isn’t it dear of him?_
_Yesterday Lord Cheriton took me to the Zoölogical Gardens to see the
elephants. It was Aunt Caroline’s suggestion. She thought we should
find so many things in common. I think we did; at least I know we had
one thing in common. We are both_ very _fond of cream buns. I
had four, and one of the elephants had five. But Lord Cheriton says
the elephants are so big you can’t call them greedy. We also saw the
bears. They each had a cream bun apiece. Lord Cheriton says each of
them would have eaten another, but he thought it hardly right to
encourage them._
_Lord Cheriton is a very high-principled man. He says I am to be
very careful of a perfectly charming old gentleman who calls most
days to see Aunt Caroline. I call him Gobo because he gobbles like a
turkey, and he calls me Goose because I am rather a silly. He is a
Duke really. Lord Cheriton doesn’t seem to trust him. He says it is
because of his past life. I heard Lord Cheriton tell Aunt Caroline
that she ought not to encourage the_ old reprobate _with me in
the house. It is rather dreadful that he should be like that, because
he is such a dear, although his face is so red and he gobbles like
anything. He--Gobo--is going to give me a riding horse so that I can
ride in Rotten Row, as it is so good for the health. He rides in
Rotten Row every morning. He says my horse will be quite as nice as
Squire Lascelles’ pedigree hunter was. I don’t think Lord Cheriton
approves of it. He seems to doubt whether Dearest Papa would like me
to be seen much in public with a man who has no principles._
_I have spoken to Miss Burden about it. But she agrees with Lord
Cheriton in everything, because she considers he is the only perfect
man she has ever met. Miss Burden says his ideals are so lofty. Aunt
Caroline doesn’t think so much of Lord Cheriton. She says that all
men and most women are vain, selfish, worldly, and self-seeking.
I wish Aunt Caroline could meet Dearest Papa. And you too, Muffin
dearest. But I do think Aunt Caroline is mistaken about Lord
Cheriton. I know that he pays great attention to his appearance, but
I am perfectly sure he is a Sweet. If he were not, why should he take
so much trouble over my lilac frock and my new hat, which I don’t
think I like because it makes people stare so; and why should he be
so careful that I should come to no harm, and always try to act just
as he thinks Dearest Papa would like him to? I am sure Aunt Caroline
must be mistaken. It must be because people in London are always
cynical. At least that is what Lord Cheriton says. He says there is
something in the atmosphere of London that turns the milk of human
kindness sour. Isn’t it dreadful? I am so glad we haven’t that kind
of atmosphere at Slocum Magna, Muffin dearest._
_Lord Cheriton is marvelously clever. Some of the words he uses
are longer than Dearest Papa’s. He says I am a Throwback. He won’t
tell me what it means. He says it is a dictionary word, yet I can’t
find it in Aunt Caroline’s dictionary. Aunt Caroline says I am too
inquisitive. Please ask Dearest Papa. He will certainly know._
_Lord Cheriton is very good at poetry. He says it is because he went
to the same school as Lord Byron. He has written what he calls an Ode
to a Lilac Frock. It begins like this:_--
_Youth is so fair that the Morning’s smile,_
_Is touched with the glamor of a pure delight._
_I cannot remember any more, and Aunt Caroline burnt the copy he
gave me, herself personally. She said he was old enough to know
better. But I think it is awfully clever of him, don’t you, Muffin
dearest? Miss Burden was very miserable about the Ode--I mean, of
course, about Aunt Caroline burning it. She scorched her fingers
in trying to rescue it from the flames. She has a new lilac frock,
because Lord Cheriton admires lilac frocks so much. She looks a Sweet
in it, although Aunt Caroline says she looks a perfect fright. Aunt
Caroline always says what she means, but I don’t think she always
means what she says. She said some perfectly wicked things about
Tobias when the poor darling escaped from his basket and hid behind
the drawing-room curtains. But I think that was because Ponto was
frightened. Ponto is a little Horror. I think I shall persuade Tobias
to bite him._
_Aunt Caroline says if I behave well I am to go to Buckingham Place
to see the Queen. If I do go I am to have another new frock, although
I am sure I shall never get one half so nice as my lilac is. I do
wish I could go in that. I am sure the Queen would like it; but when
I told Aunt Caroline she told me to hold my tongue. The frock I am
going to see the Queen in is all white, which Lord Cheriton says is
his favorite color because it is the emblem of virginal purity._
_I have not had a single game of hockey since I came to London. Lord
Cheriton says they only play hockey in London when the Thames is
frozen over, which happens only once in a blue moon. I do call that
silly, don’t you, Muffin dearest? when we have a mixed match at
Slocum Magna every Wednesday all through the winter._
_Last night I went to a party in my new evening frock. Everybody
liked it--at least, they said they did. One or two young men told
me they admired it immensely. Wasn’t it dear of them? Lord C. and
Gobo were there. They didn’t think it was cut a bit too low. I am so
pleased. I wish, Muffin dearest, that you and Polly and Milly had one
like it, because I am sure it must be awfully expensive. And what do
you think? Aunt Caroline has given me a string of pearls to wear with
it which once belonged to Great Grandmamma Dorset. I do call that_
British, _don’t you? They are supposed to be very valuable.
Lord C. and Gobo both thought the party was a great success. Aunt
Caroline went to sleep most of the evening._
_A fortnight next Wednesday Aunt Caroline is going to give a dance
because of me. It was Lord Cheriton who persuaded her, and he is
arranging everything. Aunt Caroline and he cannot agree about
the champagne for supper. Aunt Caroline says that claret cup was
considered good enough when she came out. Lord Cheriton says that
civilization has advanced since those days. I thought it sounded
unkind to Aunt Caroline, but Miss Burden says Lord Cheriton can’t
help putting things epigrammatically._
_Then, too, Muffin dearest, I must tell you that Aunt Caroline and
Lord Cheriton have almost quarreled over Gobo. Lord C. insists upon
not inviting the harmless old dear. He says if he comes to the ball
he will abuse the wine, yet drink more of it than is good for him,
and that he will play bridge all the evening and be a nuisance to
everybody. Lord Cheriton says he always vitiates an atmosphere of
virginal purity by saying and doing things that he oughtn’t. I
suppose Lord Cheriton will have to have his way, because he is acting
as a sort of deputy to Dearest Papa. He has already kissed me several
times “paternally,” which is really awfully sweet of him; and every
day he warns me to beware of Gobo and to be very careful that he does
not go too far._
_This is all this time, Muffin dearest. I send heaps and heaps of
love and kisses to you and Polly and Milly and Dickie and Charley and
poor blind Doggo; and to Dearest Papa I send twelve extra special
kisses. I remain always your most affectionate sister_
GOOSE.
_P.S.--Tobias sends his fondest love._
This letter may enable the judicious to discern that although the
conquest of London by the lilac frock and the daffodil-colored mane
proceeded apace, all was not harmony in Hill Street, W. To Cheriton’s
masterly stage management there can be no doubt much of the triumph was
due, but he unfortunately was the last man in the world to underrate
his own achievement. “Cheriton can’t carry corn” was the trite but
obviously just manner in which George Betterton summed up the situation.
No two persons knew Caroline Crewkerne quite so well as these old
cronies. And no one save Caroline Crewkerne knew them quite so well
as they knew each other. It required a very experienced hand to hold
the balance even between them. Let it be said at once that one was
forthcoming in that very worldly wise old woman.
This was quite as it should be. For it was wonderful how soon it was
bruited about in the parish that two Richmonds had already entered the
field. Both were eligible, mature, and distinguished men, and both were
more popular than in Caroline’s opinion they ought to have been. As she
said in her sarcastic manner, she knew them both too well to have any
illusions about them. Les hommes moyens sensuels, said she.
Not, of course, that Caroline’s opinion prevented their entrances
and exits in Hill Street at all hours of the day and of the evening
becoming a subject of comment. There were those, however, who were
favorably placed to watch the comedy--or ought we to call it farce now
that criticism has grown so sensitive upon the point?--who were by no
means enamored of the spectacle. The fair protagonist was so authentic.
However, the gods were looking, as they are sometimes. And the manner
in which they contrived to mark their attention was really rather
quaint. They inserted a bee in Cheriton’s cool and sagacious bonnet.
“My dear Caroline,” said he, one morning when he paid a call, “do you
know I have taken a fancy to have a copy of Grandmother Dorset to stick
in the little gallery in Grosvenor Square.”
“Humph!” said Caroline, ungraciously.
“Don’t say ‘humph,’ my dear Caroline,” said Cheriton, melodiously; “it
makes you look so plain.”
“I have never allowed that picture to leave my drawing-room,” said she,
“for public exhibition or on any other pretext, and I don’t see why I
should do so at this time of day.”
“There is no need for it to leave your drawing-room,” said Cheriton,
persuasively. “A man can come here to copy it if you will grant him the
use of the place of a morning.”
“I don’t see why,” said Caroline, “my drawing-room should be turned
into a painter’s studio.”
“It is quite a simple matter,” Cheriton explained. “A curtain can be
rigged up and drawn across the canvas, and you won’t know it’s there.”
Caroline yielded with reluctance.
“There is a young fellow of the name of Lascelles,” said Cheriton,
“whom I believe to be quite competent to make a respectable copy.”
“A Royal Academician?”
“God bless me, no! The young fellow is only a beginner.”
“I fail to see why I should grant the use of my drawing-room,” said
Caroline, “to a person who is not a member of the Royal Academy. And
what an inferior copy by some wretched dauber will profit you, I cannot
imagine.”
“I am afraid,” said Cheriton, with the air of one imparting a state
secret, “I am going Gainsborough mad. If I can’t have Grandmother
Dorset at present for Cheriton House, I intend to have something
as near to her as I can get. And, in my opinion, this young fellow
Lascelles is the very man to make a faithful copy of the peerless
original. He has had the best possible training for color, and, like
myself, he is a Gainsborough enthusiast.”
Without further preface, James Lascelles found his way to Hill Street
one fine spring morning. He was armed with the tools of his trade, and
with a great piece of canvas some eighty-four inches by fifty.
Jim Lascelles was a cheery, healthy, young fellow, about six feet two,
and undoubtedly a supremely attractive representative of the English
nation. How a man of Cheriton’s cool penetration, who rejoiced in such
a sound working knowledge of things as they are, should have fallen so
easily and so blindly into the trap that had been laid for him is one
of those matters upon which only the most inconclusive speculations can
avail us. Doubtless he thought that a young fellow so obscure as Jim,
who was as poor as a mouse, and in no way immodest in his ideas, could
be trusted implicitly with such a trifling commission. And doubtless
he could have been had those Persons Upstairs played the game. But of
course they don’t always; and a man as wise as Cheriton ought to have
known it.
All that Cheriton condescended to know on this important and
wide-reaching subject was that Jim Lascelles “hadn’t a bob in the
world,” and that he was good to his mother. He was not even aware that
the mother of Jim, by some obscure mode of reasoning peculiar to her
kind, felt that Jim was bound to turn out a great genius. Nor was he
aware that on that _naïf_ pretext she had pinched and scraped in the
most heroic manner to spare enough from her modest pittance to give
Jim three years’ training in Paris in the studio of the world-renowned
Monsieur Gillet. Indeed, there is no reason to believe that Lord
Cheriton had any special faith in Jim or in his genius. He merely
believed that he could intrust a little commission with perfect safety,
and with profit to both parties, to a modest, sound-hearted, pleasantly
mediocre young fellow.
Now, at the hour Jim Lascelles made his first appearance in Hill
Street, that is just about what he was. Sometimes, it is true, he would
have occasional dreams of coming greatness. But he never mentioned
them to anybody, because, in his own mind, he was convinced that they
were due to having supped later than usual. He troubled very little
about the future. He worked on steadily, striving to pay his way; and
if he never expected to see his “stuff” on the line in the long room
at Burlington House, he did hope some time to sell it a little more
easily, and to get better prices for it from the dealers.
If he could go once in three years to Kennington Oval to see Surrey
play the Australians, or if he could afford a couple of tickets
occasionally for the Chelsea Arts Club Fancy Ball at Covent Garden,
or his funds were sufficient for him to take his mother to the
dress-circle of a suburban theater to see a play that ended pleasantly,
and he was always able to buy as much tobacco as he wanted, he didn’t
mind very much that he worked very hard to earn very little. He argued
quite correctly that many chaps were worse off than Jim Lascelles. He
had splendid health, and he had a splendid mother.
No sooner had John received Jim Lascelles on this memorable forenoon,
and the mighty canvas that accompanied him, which was in the care of
two stalwart sons of labor, than the fun really began. In the first
place, it was only with infinite contrivance that it was got through
the blue drawing-room door, which, fortunately for Jim--and dare we say
for Cheriton?--was part and parcel of a spacious and lofty Georgian
interior. All the same, some sacrifice of white paint was involved in
the process, which was deemed a sacrilege by at least one witness to it.
However, our old friend John did not overawe Jim Lascelles as much as
he had a right to expect to, because Jim had been born and brought
up at the Red House at Widdiford, and he went to quite a good school
before the crash came.
“A shocking bad light,” said Jim, surveying the aristocratic gloom of
the blue drawing-room as though it belonged to him. “Better stick it
there.”
With considerable hauteur, John superintended the rearing of the
unwieldy canvas in the place Jim Lascelles had indicated. It involved
the moving of the sofa six yards to the left. To do this, in the
opinion of John, almost required a special Act of Parliament. It was
certainly necessary to get the authority of Mr. Marchbanks before it
could be moved an inch. Jim, however, being a young fellow who liked
his own way, and who generally managed to get it, cheerfully removed
the sofa himself while John was seeking the permission of his chief.
When that astonished functionary returned, the two stalwart sons of
labor were performing their final duties. He had, therefore, to be
content with a stern admonition as to where they put their feet while
they fixed up the canvas.
Jim Lascelles was not given to unbridled enthusiasms, but the discovery
of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, seemed greatly to
disturb him.
“Ye gods!” said Jim, “it is a crime to keep the heritage of the nation
in a light like this.” He turned to John, who held his chin in the air,
the incarnation of outraged dignity. “I say,” said he, “can’t you draw
those blinds up higher?”
“No, sir,” said John, superciliously, “not without her ladyship’s
permission.”
“Where is her ladyship?” said Jim. “I should like to see her.”
“Her ladyship is _not_ at home, sir,” said John, with emphasis.
“Well,” said the imperturbable James, “those blinds will undoubtedly
have to go up higher.”
And Jim Lascelles, doubtless to prove to all whom it might concern that
he was in the habit of respecting his own opinion, walked up to the
window, unloosed the cords, and hauled up the Venetian blinds to their
uttermost. Various additional beams of the May sunshine rewarded his
action.
“Now,” said Jim, “perhaps we shall be able to get some sort of an idea
of Gainsborough at his best.”
We think it is open to doubt whether John had a feeling for art. At
least he seemed to evince no desire to obtain an idea of Gainsborough
at his best. For he merely turned his back upon Araminta, Duchess of
Dorset, and incidentally upon Jim Lascelles, and proceeded in quite the
grand manner to shepherd the two sons of labor into the street.
This feat accomplished, John made a formal complaint to his official
superior.
“That painting man,” said he, “goes on as if the place belonged to him.
I don’t know what her ladyship will say, I’m sure.”
“John,” said that pillar of the Whigs impressively, “if the education
of the masses does not prove the ruin of this country, Henry
Marchbanks is not my name.”
Miss Perry, in her second-best frock, the modest blue serge, descended
the stairs.
“Has the painting man come yet?” she inquired.
“Yes, miss, he has,” said John, with venom and with brevity.
“Do you think I might go in and peep at him?” she said in her ludicrous
way. “I should so like to see a real painting man, painting a real
picture with paints.”
“If you obtain her ladyship’s permission, I dare say, miss, you may do
so,” said Mr. Marchbanks, cautiously.
Miss Perry, however, as is the way of her sex, when her curiosity was
fully aroused, was quite capable of displaying a mind of her own.
Miss Perry entered the blue drawing-room noiselessly. There was the
painting man with his hands in his pockets. He was standing with
his back to her, and he was entirely lost in contemplation of the
masterpiece he had been commissioned to copy.
“Marvelous!” he could be heard to exclaim at little intervals under his
breath, “marvelous!”
This examination of Gainsborough’s masterpiece was terminated long
before it otherwise would have been by the intervention of what can
only be described as a positive crow of human delight.
“Why, it’s Jim,” said Miss Perry. “Jim Lascelles.”
Jim Lascelles turned about with a look of wonder upon his handsome
countenance. At first he said not a word; and then he placed both hands
upon the stalwart shoulders of Miss Perry and gave her a sound shaking
of affectionate incredulity.
“It is the Goose Girl,” said Jim. “You great overgrown thing.”
Miss Perry gave what can only be described as a second crow of human
pleasure.
“Why, Jim,” said she, “you’ve got a mustache.”
“The Goose Girl,” cried Jim, “in the blessed old town of London.”
“I’ve been in London three weeks,” said Miss Perry, importantly.
“I’ve been in London three years,” said Jim Lascelles, sadly. “What a
great overgrown thing! You are taller than I am.”
“Oh no,” said Miss Perry; “I am only six feet.”
Jim Lascelles declined to be convinced that Miss Perry was not more
than six feet until they had stood back to back to take a measurement.
“You are an absolute what-do-you-call-’em!” said Jim. “Are you as fond
of bread and jam and apples and old boots as you used to be? Or, let me
see, was it Doggo who used to eat old boots in his youth?”
“I never ate old boots,” said Miss Perry, with an air of conviction.
“Yes, I remember now,” said Jim; “old boots and kitchen chairs were the
only things you didn’t eat. I’ve had many a licking because the Goose
Girl was so fond of apples.”
We are sorry to state that Miss Perry’s lips suffered an unmistakable
twitch.
“Have you ever tasted cream buns, Jim?” said she.
“No,” said Jim; “we don’t get those refinements at Balham. But tell
me, how is the Muffin Girl, and the Polly Girl, and the Milly Girl,
and Dickie and Charley, and all the rest of the barbarian horde? And
what is the Goose Girl doing so far away from Slocum Magna? How has
she found her way into this superlative neighborhood?” The eye of Jim
Lascelles was arrested by Miss Perry’s formal blue serge. “Governess,
eh? How funny that the Goose Girl, with the brains of a bumble-bee,
should be turned into a governess!”
“Oh no,” said Miss Perry. “Didn’t you know? I have come to live with
Aunt Caroline.”
“Aunt who?”
“Aunt Caroline,” said Miss Perry.
“Then she must be one of the grand relations the Polly Girl used to
boast about, that would never have nothing to do with the family of
Slocum Magna.”
We hope and trust that neither Aunt Caroline nor Ponto overheard Jim
Lascelles; in fact, there is every reason to believe that they did
not, because had they done so, it is our firm belief that this history
would have been over almost as soon as it had begun. Yet this was the
indubitable moment that Ponto and his mistress chose to make their
entrance into the blue drawing-room. The instant Jim Lascelles caught
sight of the head-dress, the black silk, the ebony walking-stick, and
the obese quadruped with gargoyle eyes, he checked his discourse and
bowed in a very becoming manner.
“Aunt Caroline,” said Miss Perry, with a presence of mind which really
did her the highest credit, “this is Mr. Lascelles, who has come to
paint the picture.”
The old lady fixed her eyeglass with polar coolness.
“So I perceive,” said she.
She looked Jim over as if he himself were a masterpiece by
Gainsborough, and without making any comment she and Ponto withdrew
from the blue drawing-room.
“A singularly disagreeable and ill-bred old woman,” said Jim, who had
the unfortunate habit of speaking his mind freely on all occasions.
“Aunt Caroline _is_ rather reserved with strangers,” said Miss Perry,
“but she is a dear, really.”
“She is not a dear at all,” said Jim Lascelles, “and she’s not a bit
like one. She is just a proud, disagreeable, and unmannerly old woman.”
Miss Perry looked genuinely concerned. For Jim Lascelles was angry,
and she felt herself to be personally responsible for Aunt Caroline.
However, there was one resource left for the hour of affliction.
“Would you like to see Tobias?” said she. “I’ve got him with me. I will
fetch the sweet.”
“What, is that ferret still alive?” said Jim. “My hat!” And then as
Miss Perry moved to the drawing-room door, said James, “Oh no, you
don’t. Come back and sit there on the sofa if it is quite up to your
weight, and I will show you how to paint a picture.”
“What fun!” cried Miss Perry, returning obediently. “Do you remember
teaching me how to draw cows?”
“Yes, I do,” said Jim Lascelles. “You could draw as good a cow as
anybody I ever saw, and that’s the only thing you could do except sit a
horse and handle a ferret and eat bread and jam.”
Miss Perry sat in the middle of the sofa. By force of habit she assumed
her most characteristic pose.
“There was also one other thing you could do,” said Jim Lascelles.
“When you were not actually engaged in eating bread and jam, you could
always sit hours on end with your finger in your mouth thinking how you
were going to eat it.”
Jim took up his charcoal.
“Goose Girl,” said he, “it’s the oddest thing out. Araminta, Duchess of
Dorset, had the habit of sticking her paw into her mouth. And I’ll take
my davy her thoughts were of bread and jam.”
“Cream buns are so much nicer,” said Miss Perry, sighing gently.
“You have grown a perfect Sybarite since you came to London,” said Jim.
“Nobody ever suspected the existence of cream buns at Slocum Magna.”
Suddenly, and without any sort of warning, something flashed through
the mind of Jim Lascelles; and this by some occult means conferred the
air and the look upon him that gets people into encyclopedias.
“Don’t move, Goose Girl,” said he. “Do you know who has painted that
hair of yours?”
“I don’t think it has been painted,” said Miss Perry.
“That is all you know,” said Jim. “Your hair has been painted by the
light of the morning.”
Jim Lascelles laid down his charcoal and took up the brush that on a
day was to make him famous. He dipped it in bright yellow pigment;
and although, as all the world knows, the hair of Araminta, Duchess
of Dorset, is unmistakably auburn, Jim began by flinging a splotch of
yellow upon the great canvas.
“Goose Girl,” said Jim, with an expression of joy that made him seem
preposterously fine to look at, “I have sometimes felt that if it
should ever be my luck to happen upon a great subject, I might turn out
a painter.”
“Your mamma always said you would,” said Miss Perry.
“And your papa always said you would marry an earl,” said Jim Lascelles.
Quite suddenly the blue drawing-room vibrated with a note of triumph.
“Oh, Jim! I’ve almost forgotten to tell you about my lilac frock.”
“Have you a lilac frock?”
“You remember the mauve that Muffin had?” said Miss Perry, breathlessly.
“After my time,” said Jim Lascelles. “But I pity a mauve on the
Ragamuffin.”
“Muffin’s mauve was perfect,” said Miss Perry. “And my lilac is nearly
as nice as Muffin’s.”
“Put it on to-morrow,” said Jim. “I’ll inspect you in it, you great
overgrown thing. Now, don’t move the Goose Piece, you silly. The light
of the morning strikes it featly. Really I doubt whether this yellow be
bright enough.”
“Jim,” said Miss Perry, “to-morrow I will show you my new hat.”
“Stick your paw in your mouth,” said Jim. “And don’t dare to take it
out until you are told to. And keep the Goose Piece just where it is.
Think of cream buns.”
“They are awfully nice,” said Miss Perry.
Jim Lascelles dabbed another fearsome splotch of yellow upon the great
canvas.
“Monsieur Gillet would give his great French soul,” said Jim, softly,
“for the hair of the foolish Goose Girl whose soul is composed of cream
buns. Ye Gods!”
Why James Lascelles should have been guilty of that irrelevant
exclamation I cannot say. Perhaps it was that the young fellow fancied
that he heard the first faint distant crackle of the immortal laughter.
Well, well! we are but mortal, and who but the gods have made us so?