"Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. "General inspection after lunch; drying bins, stores and the young palms south-east. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. " "You don't inquire what brings Sir James Thornhill here?" said Austin. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. She 191 picked up the remote, usurping it of its dividing status between their bodies.
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