Malcolm stood before it in a rapt mood of ecstasy, then he struck himself dramatically on the breast.
"Goliath," he said sorrowfully, "I am the most miserable of men, a 'mute inglorious Milton' is nothing to me.

Nature has created me a lover of the picturesque.

In heart and soul I am an artist, I dabble in colours, I dream of lights and shades and glorious effects; but the power of working out my ideas is denied me.

If I try to paint a tree my friends gibe at me.

I am a poor literary hack; but I give you my word, my dear old Philistine, that I would willingly change places with you." Anna smiled, she was accustomed to this sort of talk; but to her surprise Verity, who had just rejoined them, looked grave.
"I am always so sorry for Mr.Herrick when he says this sort of thing," she observed in a low voice aside to Anna.