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. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. "Mother—dear mother! Once again, I beseech you to listen to me. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. .
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