The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. Eh bien, we shall see. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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