The two gentlemen walked on towards one of the streets out of Fitzroy Square.
In a few minutes more Harley L’Estrange was in his element, seated carelessly on a deal table smoking his cigar, and discussing art with the gusto of a man who honestly loved, and the taste of a man who thoroughly understood it. The young artist, in his dressing robe, adding slow touch upon touch, paused often to listen the better. And Henry Norrey s, enjoying the brief respite from a life of great labour, was gladly reminded of idle hours under rosy skies; for these three men had formed their friendship in Italy, where the bands of friendship are woven by the hands of the Graces.
CHAPTER V.
Leonard and Mr. Burley walked on into the suburbs round the north road from London, and Mr. Burley offered to find literary employment for Leonard,—an offer eagerly accepted.
Then they went into a public-house by the wayside. Burley demanded a private room, called for pen, ink, and paper; and placing these implements before Leonard, said, “Write what you please, in prose, five sheets of letter-paper, twenty-two lines to a page,—neither more nor less.”
“I cannot write so.”
“Tut, ‘t is for bread.”
The boy’s face crimsoned.
“I must forget that,” said he.