Humphrey, too, was asleep on his sofa. Raffaelle himself could not have seemed a more ideal painter. The very lights of the afternoon harmonised with the purple hue of his velvet coat, the soft brown silkiness of his beard, and his high pale forehead. Like his brother, Humphrey spoiled the artistic effect by that unlucky redness of the nose.
The same awakening was performed.
"I have just found your brother," said Phillis, "at work on Poetry."
"Noble fellow, Cornelius!" murmured the Artist. "Always at it. Always with nose to the grindstone. He will overdo it some day."
"I hope not," said Phillis, with a gleam in her eye. "I sincerely hope not. Perhaps he is stronger than he looks. And what are you doing, Mr. Humphrey?"
"You found me asleep. The bow stretched too long must snap or be unbent."
"Yes," said Phillis; "you were exhausted with work."
"My great picture—no, it is not on the canvas," for Phillis was looking at the bare easel.
"Where is it, then? Do show it to me."
"When the groups are complete I will let you criticise them. It may be that I shall learn something from an artless and unconventional nature like your own."