You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. That’s one thing clear. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Without stopping to inquire into the cause of their mirth, or even to ask the names of his guests, the worthy carpenter shook hands with the one-eyed chapmen, slapped Mr. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to.
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