E. Nesbit

“ When you reach the bottom of that steep path, you turn sharply to the right, climb a little, and then you are on a narrow chalk ridge among the roots of beech-trees with on one side a gully full of the beech’s brown drifted leaves, and on the other the steep grassy descent of the warren, where the short grey turf and the thyme and the harebells are, and where grey rabbits pop in and out of their holes and sit up and wash their furry faces with no care at all for your presence. ”

“ Then he went out. He had to pass close to Daphne, but he did not see her. She lingered a little between the bonnet shop and the jeweller’s and just in front of her was the frock-coated back of Henry. He stood a moment, speaking to his friend.
“That counter-jumper,” he was saying, “would sell a bad copy for more than any other man would get for an original. That’s why one goes to him.”
“I wish you hadn’t to, though,” said his friend.
“It’s not only my work, it’s Vorontzoff’s.”
And Daphne perceived that Henry really imagined himself to have sacrificed his pride on the altar of friendship. ”

“ Daphne, recovering the use of her senses slowly, did presently get back the power of speech sufficiently to say, almost, as it seemed, with resentment:
“You seem very happy.”
“It’s a beautiful world,” said he, “full of beautiful people. But London’s very hot, very dusty. One almost forgets how green a chestnut-tree can be in spring, doesn’t one?” ”

“ Henry, on terms. That wall, sir, is worth a hundred and fifty pounds—and thirty-three per cent. On those terms, of course, we should feel a certain pleasure in bringing forward the work of an artist who only needs to be known, Mr. Henry, believe me, to be appreciated. A picture on that wall is worth double the price it would fetch on any other wall in England.”
“Look here,” said Henry, “this show of ours is going to be the success of the autumn season—Vorontzoff’s name, and my painting. It’s a chance of a life-time to any gallery.” ”

“ Daphne could not thrust herself between them. She turned and feigned absorption in the dark brown landscapes and large naked ladies that lined the walls of the ante-room. And she listened.
“You don’t know me,” said Henry abruptly.
“But pardon me, Mr. Henry,” said the other. “I know you very well. ’You have passed through our hands more than once. Your work is a special market, Mr. Henry.”
“I want,” said Henry, more abruptly still, “to give a show.”
“Quite so,” said the other, “quite so,” and stopped at that.
“A two-man show,” Henry went on; “the other man’s Vorontzoff.” ”

“ In the hours when there are so many clocks with so many different views about time it was made plain to her that she spent her days in trying to get rid of her friends so that she might run after a man who did not care for her, and that, moreover, the running was in vain. ”

“ They had a private show of it, before they took it to Chicago. I got four hundred pounds for that.”
“Whatever price you get for your pictures we can get double,” said the dealer.
“I suppose you get all sorts of people here.”
“Ah, it’s not the picture, nor the people who come to look at it; it’s the man behind the picture.”
“Of course,” said Henry.
“Ah, not the artist,” he said, and Daphne suddenly perceived that this egregious person meant himself.
“Well,” said Henry, “I’m going to have the show—and Vorontzoff’s going to have the show. Would you like us to have it here?” ”

“ It was at that moment, when she was walking very slowly away from the place of her humiliation, that she met Mr. St. Hilary face to face.
There was no pride left now, nor courage, to help her. She looked at him, and she held her hand out. But the limits of self-possession were reached. She literally could not speak.
He hardly gave her a chance. He was gay and fluent. Congratulated himself on the meeting; he had meant to call. Yes, the summer camp was a great success. Doris was a darling—yes, of course she missed her sister—wanted her frightfully ”