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The Poor Relation threw himself into a chair and laughed very softly, his lower lip gripped fast between his teeth. It was summer in Weatherbroom the glareless, perfect summer of the country, of trees in their first verdure, of seas of bracken all in freshest green, of shining golden gorse, of babbling, clear brown streams, of birds that sang and chattered all day long.
In the county of Hampshire is a little place called Weatherbroom quite a little place, just a hamlet and a post-office. Just out of the hamlet is a mill with a few acres of farm land attached. It's awfully picturesque a regular artists' place. By the way, are you an artist?" "Oh, no. I sketch a little, but " "That'll do. You are not an artist, but you sketch. Then you won't be quite stranded.
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