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Reine might be said to live alone at La Thuiliere, for her father could hardly be regarded seriously as a protector. Julien's visits might have compromised her, and the young man's severe principles of rectitude forbade him to cause scandal which he could not repair.
As soon as this idea had developed in Julien's brain, he seized upon it with the precipitation of a drowning man, who distractedly lays hold of the first object that seems to offer him a means of safety, whether it be a dead branch or a reed.
An Armenian by birth, she had run away from home at eighteen, and here for two years in Julien's she had tried to paint till she felt she'd go mad. She talked in abrupt, eager sentences, breaking off to watch people around us. How her big eyes fastened upon them. "To watch faces until you are sure and then paint! There is nothing else in the world!" she said. And I found this reassuring.
He had learned how to paint in Julien's studio, and that same school had taught him to despise convention. He looked on nature as a series of exquisite pictures, and regarded men and women in the mass as creatures that occasionally fitted into the landscape. He was heart whole and fancy free.
A gleam of light shot through Julien's melancholy blue eyes. Both remained silent. The green pasture-lands, bathed in the full noonday sun, were lying before them. The grasshoppers were chirping in the bushes, and the skylarks were soaring aloft with their joyous songs. Julien was endeavoring to extract the exact meaning from the reply he had just heard.
Trenholme. They've cuc-cuc-come for him. He'll be lul-lul-locked up, an' all along o' my wu-wu-wicked tongue!" Trenholme, rather interested than otherwise, did not blanch at mention of Scotland Yard. "Walk right in, Mr. Furneaux," he said; he had picked up a few tricks of speech from Transatlantic brethren of the brush met at Julien's. "Have you lunched?" "Excellently," was the reply.
What I have described is not more foolish than the stippling at South Kensington or the drawing by the masses at Julien's. The theory of the division of the tones is no more foolish than the theory of plein air or the theory of the square brushwork; it is as foolish, but not a jot more foolish. Great art dreams, imagines, sees, feels, expresses reasons never.
"Look, it's a husband and wife," she said, innocently, feeling a little more at ease. Julien's mouth brushed her ear. "To-night you will be my little wife," he said. Although she had learnt a great deal since she had been living among the fields, as yet only the poetical side of love had presented itself to her mind, and she did not understand him. Was she not already his wife?
Clifford knew and deplored the fact that Gethryn's "cellar" was no longer open to the public. Since the day when Rex returned from Julien's, tired and cross, to find a row of empty bottles on the floor and Clifford on the sofa conversing incoherently with himself, and had his questions interrupted by a maudlin squawk from the parrot also tipsy since that day Gethryn had carried the key.
He's worked all day at Julien's for a week past," cried Elliott and Rowden together. "And my evenings?" prompted Clifford sweetly. "Are devoted to writing letters home!" chanted the chorus. "Get out!" was all Rex answered, but his face brightened at the three bad boys standing in a row with their hats all held politely against their stomachs.
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