“Perhaps I am mad,” he muttered again, as he sat waiting for Rosina instead. And then he caught sight of the little figure Davie was sucking, and began to laugh boisterously.
Billy was terrified.
“You can have the studio back if you like,” he said, soothingly; the cripple’s tones became protective in their turn. “I can write anywhere—and, after all, what’s the use of my writing?—nobody will take what I write.”
“I can write kisses,” interposed Davie, looking up proudly.
“What does he mean, Billy?” said Matthew.
“Oh, he used to put crosses at the end of the letter when Rosina wrote to poor old Coble—kisses to his grandfather, you know.”
“He’s a angel now,” said Davie, gravely.
“What’s that you’re sucking?” Billy responded, sternly. “You know you mustn’t.”
He took it away, and Davie set up a howl till pacified by a penny.
“It’s an image of a preacher, Matt,” Billy explained. “I forget his name. He died last year—Rosina used to go and hear him. She said he gave her great comfort. These images are sold in thousands. What a ludicrous thing popular religion is!”