“I’m glad you condemn those scandalous aspersions of my character, Miss Somerton; though, you see, all that pretty poetry is not much good, for everybody gambles one way or another in turn. You should see the big guns who do it in the City—real out-and-outers—members of Parliament, and swells of the first water—I mean in buying and selling shares, and what they call rigging the market, and all that sort of thing. Why, the governor himself has done a little in that way in his time. But let me see, where were we? Oh, about what people say. Well, I was told the other day that young Hammerton was fond of cards; but, bless us, there is always lots of scandalous things said about young fellows of position; indeed, I heard something of Hammerton the other day which is hardly proper to mention before ladies, and yet he’s as good a fellow as there is going—don’t you think so, Miss Somerton?”
“That I certainly do,” said Amy, fully prepared for the sly attack; “but many a good man has been led astray by ill-chosen companionship.”
“‘My son, if sinners tempt thee,’ &c.,—I see, yes,” said Richard, with a slight sneer.
“You may laugh, Mr. Tallant,” said Amy, blushing at her own temerity; “but many a free, generous-minded man has been brought to misery by the companionship of a bad man, professing friendship which he never felt or understood.”
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Tallant; “the same fellow who told me that he had heard I gambled, told me that hard things were said of another man whom I meet sometimes. Of course I cannot be answerable for the character of every fellow I meet; it is all envy, hatred, and malice.”
“Bad company,” said Amy, “is like a nail driven into a post, which after the first and second blow may be drawn out with little difficulty; but being once driven up to the head, the pincers cannot take hold to draw it out, but which can only be done by the destruction of the wood. We had to turn that sentence into hexameters the other day by order of Signor De Maury, our linguistic master,” said Amy; “I think it rather a fine simile.”
“Indeed? yes, perhaps it is,” said Mr. Richard Tallant, thinking to himself that the girl was “infernally impudent.”
By this time they had reached the last coppice, prior to coming out into the open before Barton Hall; and at a picturesque bend in the somewhat intricate footpath, they came suddenly upon Mr. Phillips, the artist, who was sitting quietly contemplating a half-sketched-in clump of spring foliage, pierced with a broad ray of sunlight.
The artist’s long black hair was thrown back, his hat lying on the ground, and his sharply cut features were lit up with a smile of satisfaction.
He had worked at this little sketch for many days, and had only just accomplished what he considered to be a reasonable approach to the production of a peculiar effect of sunlight upon firs and larches and silver beech, with a background of rock and sky, in early spring.