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Updated: August 25, 2024
'By Jove! said Findon, turning on the artist with animation, 'where did you learn all this? 'I've been painting a good many years, said Fenwick, his cheeks aglow. 'But I've got on a lot this last six months. 'I suppose, in the country, you couldn't get properly at the model? 'No. I've had no chances. 'Let's all pray to have none, said Cuningham, good-naturedly.
besides several other manuscripts by the same poet, and also the autograph of a challenge sent by Byron to Lord Brougham for alleged insult, a fact to which no reference has been made in Byron's biography. From Liverpool, with my friends Professor Renwick and Professor Cuningham, I set out on a journey to the lakes of England. We reached Bowness, on Lake Windermere, in the evening.
And you were away? Please, please go on! When was it? It must have been that spring when She put her hand to her head, trying to remember dates. 'It was just before the Academy, he said, reluctantly. 'You were out? 'I had gone to tell Watson and Cuningham the good news. His voice dropped. Her hands caught each other again. 'It was that day that very day we came to you? He nodded.
A pleasant, serviceable ability was stamped on Cuningham's whole aspect; while Watson's large, lounging way, and dishevelled or romantic good looks suggested yet another perennial type the dreamer entangled in the prose of life. He looked at the picture which Cuningham turned towards him his hands thrust into the vast pockets of his holland coat.
If they had only known, they represented to her cautious yet not unkindly soul! the main security for those very long arrears of rent she had allowed her lodger to run up. Were they now come at this unusual hour to settle up with Mr. Fenwick? If so, her own settling up sweet prospect! might be in sight. Cuningham and Watson had recently left her, and taken a joint studio in Chelsea.
'Have you been writing those articles in the Mirror? said Watson, abruptly. 'I'm not a journalist. The young man's tone was sulky. He got up and his loquacity disappeared. 'Well, I must be off, said Lord Findon. 'But you're coming to dinner with me to-morrow night, Cuningham, aren't you? Will you excuse a short invitation' he turned, after a moment's pause, to Fenwick 'and accompany him?
'Write to the old boy' so Cuningham had advised again and again 'get something definite out of him. But Fenwick had once or twice torn up a letter of the kind in morbid pride and despair. Suppose he were rebuffed? That would be an end of the Findon connexion, and he could not bring himself to face it. He must keep his entrée to the house; above all, he clung to the portrait and the sittings.
Cuningham, who had been making money with some rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympathetic, half-sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that he was just sending off to his mother and sisters in Scotland. A white dress, a lace shawl, some handkerchiefs, a sash, a fan there they lay, ranged on brown paper on the studio floor.
He caught up a mirror and looked at it reversed; he put in a bold accent or two; fumed over the lack of brilliancy in some colour he had bought the day before; and ended in a fresh burst of satisfaction. By Jove, it was good! Lord Findon had been evidently 'bowled over' by it Cuningham too. As for that sour-faced fellow, Watson, what did it matter what he thought? It must succeed!
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