"Kate, when James could not marry his cousin, a plain, silly girl, why did he go to London Bridge and jump over?"
Miss O'Reilly jumped on her chair.
"Nonsense!" she cried, reddening, "you are not going to take that leap because you cannot paint pictures!"
"No, but I'll do like James. I cannot have the girl I like—I'll have no other. I cannot marry painting, a maid as fair as May, as rosy as June, fresh as an eternal spring: and you think, Kate," he added, quite indignantly, "you actually think I would wed surly law, ill-favoured medicine, or any of those old ladies whom men woo for their money—no, 'faith!"
He spoke resolutely, and sank back in his old attitude with great decision.
"James was a fool!" hastily said Kate.
"He was; and though there is no girl can compare with painting; though the love about which so much has been sung is cold and tame compared to the passion which fills a true painter's heart, I am not going to drown myself because the glorious gift has been denied me, and I cannot be that man."
He laughed rather drearily as he said it.
"Yes, but you will do nothing else," replied Kate.
"I can put my heart to nothing else. Daisy, why do you not bring the books as usual?"