"
When his sister was gone Robert went up to his studio, and having ground
some colours upon his palette he stood for some time, brush and
mahlstick in hand, in front of his big bare canvas. But how profitless
all his work seemed to him now! What object had he in doing it? Was it
to earn money? Money could be had for the asking, or, for that matter,
without the asking. Or was it to produce a thing of beauty? But he had
artistic faults. Raffles Haw had said so, and he knew that he was
right. After all his pains the thing might not please; and with money
he could at all times buy pictures which would please, and which would
be things of beauty. What, then, was the object of his working?
He could see none. He threw down his brush, and, lighting his pipe, he
strolled downstairs once more.
His father was standing in front of the fire, and in no very good
humour, as his red face and puckered eyes sufficed to show.
"Well, Robert," he began, "I suppose that, as usual, you have spent your
morning plotting against your father?"
"What do you mean, father?"
"I mean what I say. What is it but plotting when three folk--you and
she and this Raffles Haw--whisper and arrange and have meetings without
a word to me about it? What do I know of your plans?"
"I cannot tell you secrets which are not my own, father.
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