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Poor woman! She's just a fragment groping for other fragments. Stroud is the only whole I ever knew." "You ever knew? But you just said " Gisburn had a curious smile in his eyes. "Oh, I knew him, and he knew me only it happened after he was dead." I dropped my voice instinctively. "When she sent for you?" "Yes quite insensible to the irony. She wanted him vindicated and by me!"
Had not the exquisite Hermia Croft, at the last Grafton Gallery show, stopped me before Gisburn's "Moon-dancers" to say, with tears in her eyes: "We shall not look upon its like again"? Well! even through the prism of Hermia's tears I felt able to face the fact with equanimity. Poor Jack Gisburn! The women had made him it was fitting that they should mourn him.
"Money's only excuse is to put beauty into circulation," was one of the axioms he laid down across the Sevres and silver of an exquisitely appointed luncheon-table, when, on a later day, I had again run over from Monte Carlo; and Mrs. Gisburn, beaming on him, added for my enlightenment: "Jack is so morbidly sensitive to every form of beauty." Poor Jack!
Gisburn as such had not existed till nearly a year after Jack's resolve had been taken. It might be that he had married her since he liked his ease because he didn't want to go on painting; but it would have been hard to prove that he had given up his painting because he had married her.
Gisburn fond enough not to see her absurdity. It was his own absurdity he seemed to be wincing under his own attitude as an object for garlands and incense. "My dear, since I've chucked painting people don't say that stuff about me they say it about Victor Grindle," was his only protest, as he rose from the table and strolled out onto the sunlit terrace.
Gisburn fond enough not to see her absurdity. It was his own absurdity he seemed to be wincing under his own attitude as an object for garlands and incense. "My dear, since I've chucked painting people don't say that stuff about me they say it about Victor Grindle," was his only protest, as he rose from the table and strolled out onto the sunlit terrace.
But no for it was not till after that event that the rose Dubarry drawing-rooms had begun to display their "Grindles." I turned to Mrs. Gisburn, who had lingered to give a lump of sugar to her spaniel in the dining-room. "Why HAS he chucked painting?" I asked abruptly. She raised her eyebrows with a hint of good-humoured surprise.
And though this custom has been disused in many places, and agreeably commuted for by ale, yet it survives still, and that about Whitby and Scarborough in the East, and round about Gisburn, etc., in Craven, in the West. But perhaps a century or two more will put an end to it, and both the thing and name shall die.
Of course, if she had not dragged him down, she had equally, as Miss Croft contended, failed to "lift him up" she had not led him back to the easel. To put the brush into his hand again what a vocation for a wife! But Mrs. Gisburn appeared to have disdained it and I felt it might be interesting to find out why.
But no for it was not till after that event that the rose Dubarry drawing-rooms had begun to display their "Grindles." I turned to Mrs. Gisburn, who had lingered to give a lump of sugar to her spaniel in the dining-room. "Why has he chucked painting?" I asked abruptly. She raised her eyebrows with a hint of good-humoured surprise.
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