"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Nor was he long in making it available. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. " "I'd rather lie here for ever, than be indebted to you for my freedom," returned Thames.
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