It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. “All right. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. A quarter of an hour passed.
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