Robert McIntyre had converted a large bare room in the upper storey of
Elmdene into a studio, and thither he retreated after lunch. It was as
well that he should have some little den of his own, for his father
would talk of little save of his ledgers and accounts, while Laura had
become peevish and querulous since the one tie which held her to
Tamfield had been removed. The chamber was a bare and bleak one,
un-papered and un-carpeted, but a good fire sparkled in the grate, and
two large windows gave him the needful light. His easel stood in
the centre, with the great canvas balanced across it, while against the
walls there leaned his two last attempts, "The Murder of Thomas of
Canterbury" and "The Signing of Magna Charta." Robert had a weakness
for large subjects and broad effects. If his ambition was greater than
his skill, he had still all the love of his art and the patience under
discouragement which are the stuff out of which successful painters are
made. Twice his brace of pictures had journeyed to town, and twice
they had come back to him, until the finely gilded frames which had made
such a call upon his purse began to show signs of these varied
adventures. Yet, in spite of their depressing company, Robert turned
to his fresh work with all the enthusiasm which a conviction of ultimate
success can inspire.
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