" "Here he is!" cried Ireton, as the knocking was heard without. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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