But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. 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. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. "But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. She kissed him with a closed mouth, not as recklessly as she was tempted to do. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. They did not spend most days together. .
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