But you
can't copy her. She is ten times more gorgeous than any man can dare
represent her. Ergo, every picture is a failure; and the nearest
hedge-bush is worth all your galleries together"--a syllogism of sharp
edge, which he would back up by Byron's--
"I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal."
But here was one of Nature's own pictures, drawn and coloured by more
than mortal hand, and framed over and above, ready to his eye, by the
square of the dark doorway, beyond which all was flooded with the full
glory, of the low north-western sun.
A dark oak-ribbed ceiling; walls of pale fawn-yellow; an open window,
showing a corner of rich olive-stone wall, enamelled with golden
lichens, orange and green combs of polypody, pink and grey tufts of
pellitory, all glowing in the sunlight.
Above the window-sill rose a bush of maiden-blush roses; a tall spire
of blue monkshood; and one head of scarlet lychnis, like a spark
of fire; and behind all, the dark blue sea, which faded into the
pale-blue sky.
At the window stood a sofa of old maroon leather, its dark hue
throwing out in strong relief two figures who sat upon it. And when
Tom had once looked at them, he looked at nothing else.
There sat the sick girl, her head nestling upon the shoulder of Grace
Harvey; a tall, delicate thing of seventeen, with thin white cheeks,
the hectic spot aflame on each, and long fair curls, which mingled
lovingly with Grace's dark tresses, as they sat cheek against cheek,
and hand in hand.
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