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 that the Forest with its august, deep splendor despised and pitied them. They were a thing of artificial gardens, and belonged to beds of flowers all forced to grow one way &hellip;

I'd like to know that artist fellow better, was the thought upon which he returned at length to the things of practical life. I wonder if Sophia would mind him for a bit—? He rose with the sound of the gong, brushing the ashes from his speckled waistcoat. He pulled the waistcoat down. He was slim and spare in figure, active in his movements. In the dim light, but for that silvery moustache, he might easily have passed for a man of forty. I'll suggest it to her anyhow, he decided on his way upstairs to dress. His thought really was that Sanderson could probably explain his world of things he had always felt about—trees. A man who could paint the soul of a cedar in that way must know it all.

Why not? she gave her verdict later over the bread-and-butter pudding; unless you think he'd find it dull without companions.

He would paint all day in the Forest, dear. I'd like to pick his brains a bit, too, if I could manage it.

You can manage anything, David, was what she answered, for this elderly childless couple used an affectionate politeness long since deemed old-fashioned. The remark, however, displeased her, making her feel uneasy, and she did not notice his rejoinder, smiling his pleasure and content—Except yourself and our bank account, my dear. This passion of his for trees was of old a bone of contention, though very mild contention. It frightened her. That was the truth. The Bible, her Baedeker for