” “Well, you see, something has happened at home. The first Step towards the Ladder. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Your maid would not be of the least protection. There was no one stirring in the flats. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. A faint buzz above the ceiling witnessed that petrography, too, was active.
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