He did neither; his new subject thrust aside his old one, and he had no money, ergo, his friend, a picture-dealer, who had found artists slippery in money matters, followed him up sharp, as we see.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope, mother. What is it?”
“I'm tired, Charles.” He brought her a seat; she sat down.
“I did not come from Newcastle, at my age, for nothing; you have formed an improper acquaintance.”
“I, who? Is it Jack Adams?”
“Worse than any Jack Adams!”
“Who can that be? Jenkyns, mother, because he does the same things as Jack, and pretends to be religious.”
“It is a female—a fishwife. Oh, my son!”
“Christie Johnstone an improper acquaintance,” said he; “why! I was good for nothing till I knew her; she has made me so good, mother; so steady, so industrious; you will never have to find fault with me again.”
“Nonsense—a woman that sells fish in the streets!”