"Once for all, I shall go. There’s no logic in these things. Then the hotel manager struck his palms together sharply, and two Chinese "boys" came pattering in from the dining room. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day.
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