“I shall think the better o' lees all my days; sir, your words are inspeeriting.” And away went Groove with the sketch.
Gatty reflected and stopped him.
“On second thoughts, Groove, you must not ask ten shillings; you must ask twenty pounds for that rubbish.”
“Twenty pund! What for will I seek twenty pund?”
“Simply because people that would not give you ten shillings for it will offer you eleven pounds for it if you ask twenty pounds.”
“The fules,” roared Groove. “Twenty pund! hem!” He looked closer into it. “For a',” said he, “I begin to obsairve it is a work of great merit. I'll seek twenty pund, an' I'll no tak less than fifteen schell'n, at present.”
The visit of this routine painter did not cheer our artist.
The small child got a coal and pounded the floor with it like a machine incapable of fatigue. So the wished-for pose seemed more remote than ever.
The day waxed darker instead of lighter; Mr. Gatty's reflections took also a still more somber hue.
“Even Nature spites us,” thought he, “because we love her.”