They have not come! And ten is past,— Unless, by chance, my watch is fast; — Aunt Mabel surely told us “ten.” I doubt if she can do it, then.
In fact, their train.... That is,— you knew. How could you be so treacherous, Hugh? Nay;— it is scarcely mine, the crime,
One can n't account for railway-time! Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;— At least, there's nothing here of note. Then here we'll stay, please. Once for all,
I bar all artists,— great and small! From now until we go in June I shall hear nothing but this tune:— Whether I like Long's “Vashti,” or
Like Leslie's “Naughty Kitty” more; With all that critics, right or wrong, Have said of Leslie and of Long.... No. If you value my esteem,
I beg you'll take another theme; Paint me some pictures, if you will, But spare me these, for good and ill.... “Paint you some pictures!” Come, that's kind!
You know I'm nearly colour-blind. Paint then, in words. You did before; Scenes at — where was it? Dustypoor? You know....
I'll try. But mind they're pretty Not “hog hunts.”... You shall be Committee,
And say if they are “out” or “in.” I shall reject them all. Begin. Here is the first. An antique Hall ( Like Chanticlere ) with panelled wall.
A boy, or rather lad. A girl, Laughing with all her rows of pearl Before a portrait in a ruff. He meanwhile watches....
That's enough, It wants “verve,” “brio,” “breadth,” “design,”... Besides, it's English. I decline. This is the next.‘ Tis finer far:
A foaming torrent ( say Braemar ). A pony, grazing by a boulder, Then the same pair, a little older, Left by some lucky chance together.
He begs her for a sprig of heather.... — “Which she accords with smile seraphic.” I know it,— it was in the “Graphic.” Declined.
Once more, and I forego All hopes of hanging, high or low: Behold the hero of the scene, In bungalow and palankeen....
What!— all at once! But that's absurd;— Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird! Permit me —‘ Tis a Panorama, In which the person of the drama,
Mid orientals dusk and tawny, Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee, Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins, In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins,
In every kind of place and weather, Is solaced... by a sprig of heather. He puts that faded scrap before The “Rajah,” or the “Koh-i-noor”....
He would not barter it for all Benares, or the Taj-Mahal.... It guides,— directs his every act, And word, and thought — In short — in fact —
I mean... Look, Helen, that's the heather! ( Too late! Here come both Aunts together. ) What heather, Sir?
And why... “too late?” — Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait! Do n't you agree that it's a pity Portraits are hung by the Committee?
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