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Quin couldn't resist the thrust on behalf of Mr. Ranny. "It's sensible for a sensible person," Madam said crossly. "It's where you belong, instead of attempting all this university business." There were times these days when Quin quite agreed with Madam. When the tide of his confidence was out, he regarded himself as a hopeless fool and despaired of ever making up the years he had lost.
At the latter, Fred Neville, since he had been quartered at Ennis, had kept a boat for the sake of shooting seals and exploring the coast, and generally carrying out his spirit of adventure. Not far from Liscannor was Castle Quin, the seat of the Earl of Kilfenora; and some way up from Liscannor towards the cliffs, about two miles from the village, there is a cottage called Ardkill.
All he asked was "a little picture" and he got so many of these, given in purest affection, that he might have gone out of business as a carrier, had he chosen to sell them. Four of those little pictures are now very great ones worth thousands of pounds and known everywhere to fame. They are "The Parish Clerk," "Portrait of Quin," "A Landscape with Cattle," and "The Harvest Waggon."
"You will some day when you get married." "But that's just it! I don't intend to marry I am going to devote my whole life to my work." Quin, having but recently recovered from the fear that she was contemplating matrimony, now underwent a similar torture at her avowal that she was not. The second possibility was only a shade less appalling than the first.
I suffer from the excess of my virtue; you see?" Quin did not see. Mr. Martel's words conveyed but the vaguest meaning to him. But it flattered his vanity to be the recipient of such a great man's confidence. "Well, here's my point," continued his host impressively. "Mr. Phipps knows nothing of technic, of construction; but he has a sense for character and dialogue that amounts to genius.
There 'll be a lunch-counter in the new station; do you think you could run it? says he, spaking very sober. "'I 'd do my best, sir, annyway, says I. 'I 'd look out for the best of help. Do you know Patrick Quin, sir, that was hurt on the Road and gets a pinsion, sir? "'I do, says he. 'One of the best men that ever worked for this company, says he.
As a matter of fact, he has never been out of this country. But I mean that, wherever he'd go, he would be at home." "Yes," Quin admitted, with a grim smile; "that's where he was most of the time when he was in the army. What else do you like about him?" "I sha'n't tell you. You are prejudiced, like all the rest. He says that only an artist can understand an artist."
Would you mind bringing him into his bedroom?" Quin succeeded in detaching an affectionate arm from his right leg and, getting his patient up, piloted him into the apartment. "I'd just as leave put him to bed for you if you like?" he offered, noting the nervousness of the lady, who was fluttering about like a distracted butterfly. "Oh, would you?" she asked. "It would help me immensely.
She did not put on her eye-glasses; they were reserved for feminine audiences exclusively. "What do they mean by sending me this jumble of stuff?" she demanded, indicating the papers strewn on the silk coverlid. "How do they expect me to know what they are all about?" "They don't," said Quin reassuringly, coming forward; "they sent me to tell you." "And who are you, pray?" "I am Mr.
"Upstairs, sir; first room to your left," said the important person at the door, and Quin followed the stream of black-coated figures who were filing up the stairs and turning into the room he had occupied a short week ago. It was just as he had left it, except for the picture that no longer adorned the mantel.
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