"You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. A quarter of an hour passed. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. Up to dinner yesterday I did not expect to come to Canton. She fled. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Kneebone, addressing his comely attendant; "put a few more plates on the table, and bring up whatever there is in the larder. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. "Come up by the packet?" "No; came up with The Tigress.
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