He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. Don't ask any more questions. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. There was plenty of sweet water. ‘It is not your affair.
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