Anne did not listen to the reply. Of course Lorenzo was a Roman Catholic. Her father would be heartbroken, but she would give up everything for Lorenzo. Together they would voyage over the roads of Europe, their horses trotting on through the night, while the van they were sleeping in rocked gently on its springs. In the early morning she would wake to find that they were encamped by the side of a stream; the curling smoke of the wood fire would be rising beneath an ash tree; and near at hand the piebald horses would be hobbled, and happily grazing on the dew-soaked grass. She would wander along the hedge-row, startling a wood pigeon which would rise from the cornfield, and catching sight of the black and white of a magpie stealing along the edge of the wood. Soon she would return with her arms full of dog-roses, and would give one to Lorenzo to wear in his buttonhole; and in the evening she would see the fragile flower pinned to his breast as he swung on the trapeze.
“Scripture tells us,” said Mr. Sotheby, “that children should honour their parents, but I feel a respect for my son which I never felt for my father, and which I don’t expect Richard to feel for me. I know that he works as hard at his painting as I should expect him to work if he had stayed in the shop, though of course he earns no money by it. Perhaps he never will, for the qualities necessary are not the same, and Richard has spoken of men as great as Wouverman, living and painting in Paris to-day, who cannot sell their pictures. I would rather that Richard were to become a great master than that he were to sell a picture for hundreds of guineas, and incur the contempt of such men. Money is not everything: one need only read one’s Bible to see that.”
The pony slackened its speed, and turned a corner; they were back at Dry Coulter.
“Steady, boy,” said the grocer, pulling up at the vicarage gate.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sotheby,” said Anne.
“A pleasure, Miss Dunnock; thank you for taking Rachel to the circus.”
“Good-night, Mr. Sotheby. Good-night Rachel.”
“Good-night, Miss Dunnock, thank you for your kindness,” came the child’s voice as the pony darted off impatiently.
“What a glorious moon,” Anne said to herself. “And what a hard frost! There will be skating without a doubt.” She would have liked to go for a long walk to straighten out her tangled feelings, but it was half-past seven: it was time to lay the table for dinner.
“Perhaps Lorenzo is married,” she said to herself suddenly. “Then we can only be friends,” she added as she opened the door.