"Do you think so?" said Mrs. Nettley. "That's for a painter.
Now I like Winthrop's the best."
"That's for a woman," said Mr. Inchbald laughing. "You always like what you love."
"Well, what do you suppose he finds to keep him out so much of the time?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Inchbald, — "and I daren't ask him. I doubt some poor friends of his know."
"Why do you?"
"I can't tell you why; — something — the least trifle, once or twice, has given me the idea."
"He's a Christian to look at!" said Mrs. Nettley, busying herself round her stove and speaking in rather an undertone. "He's worse than a sermon to me, many times."
Her brother turned slowly and went out, thereby confessing, his sister thought, that Winthrop had been as bad as a sermon to him.
As he went out he saw a girl just mounting the stairs.
"Is Mr. Landholm in?" she said putting her head over the balusters.