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I’ll have to think of something else. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. But—he was cleverer than any of you. Over the Lodge, upon a dial was inscribed the appropriate motto, "Venio sicut fur. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. She seemed honestly glad to see him. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. “You too sing?” he asked.
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