“That’ll do. Be off. Let’s have deeds, not words.”
“Yes, sir, I will, sir. I’m a-goin’ to try, sir.”
“I said that will do.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, humbly; and, touching his cap all round, he slouched off, with an ill-used look, and gave two or three loud sniffs.
“Oh, papa, dear,” cried Glynne, “how can you speak so harshly to the poor fellow. He did wrong once, and he has been punished.”
“Did wrong once. Bah! He did wrong in being born, and has done wrong ever since. The fellow’s a regular gaol-bird, and I don’t like to see him near you. For goodness’ sake, my dear, if you must paint, paint something decent, not a scoundrel like that.”
“Your father’s quite right, my dear,” said the major, grimly. “That’s not the sort of fellow to paint. Whitewashing is what he wants.”
Sir John chuckled, and his child looked at him, wonderingly.
“But he is so picturesque, papa, dear, and when I get the canvas finished—”
“Oh, you don’t want to finish canvases, pet. Let that go. Plenty else to think of now, eh, Miss Alleyne? Why, my dear, you have a colour like a peach.”