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. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. "I'd lay down my life for yours. You must remember, you've just begun to read; you haven't any comparisons. A queer nut. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel.
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