A. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes.
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