"If I cannot paint good pictures, Kate, I will not paint bad ones."
"What will you do?"
"The City—"
"The City! the dirty, smoky City for an Irish gentleman, of pure Milesian blood, without Scotch or Saxon stain, and who calls himself O'Reilly too! Cornelius, return to painting rather."
"Kate," he replied, with an expression of pain and weariness, "this is not a matter of will; I cannot paint now; my faith is dead. You may lock up the studio; the easel may stand against the wall; pencil or palette your brother will never handle again."
"Nor shall my brother be a clerk," she said resolutely.
Cornelius knit his brow and looked obstinate.
"But why?" she exclaimed, impatiently; "will you just tell me why?"
"You ask!" he replied, tossing on the couch, where he had again thrown himself with listless indolence.
"Ay, and I want to know, too, Cornelius," she said, quietly returning to her chair.