“Hech! hech! isna thaat lamentable? Christie's mon's as daft as a drunk weaver.”
But one stayed quietly behind, and assumed that moment the office of her life.
“Ay!” he burst out again, “the resources of our art are still unfathomed! Pictures are yet to be painted that shall refresh men's inner souls, and help their hearts against the artificial world; and charm the fiend away, like David's harp!! The world, after centuries of lies, will give nature and truth a trial. What a paradise art will be, when truths, instead of lies, shall be told on paper, on marble, on canvas, and on the boards!!!”
“Dinner's on the boarrd,” murmured Christie, alluding to Lord Ipsden's breakfast; “and I hae the charge o' ye,” pulling his sleeve hard enough to destroy the equilibrium of a flea.
“Then don't let us waste our time here. Oh, Christie!”
“What est, my laddy?”
“I'm so preciously hungry!!!!”
“C-way* then!”
* Come away.
Off they ran, hand in hand, sparks of beauty, love and happiness flying all about them.