We were standing near a port-hole of the music saloon, from which light streamed.
"That is the head," said I.
She deliberately placed the paper in the belt of light, and, looking at it, remarked mechanically: "This is the head, is it ?" She showed no change of countenance, and handed it back to me as if she had seen no likeness.

"It is very interesting," she said, "but one would think you might make better use of your time than by surreptitiously sketching portraits from sick men's breasts.

One must have plenty of leisure to do that sort of thing, I should think.

Be careful that you do not get into mischief, Dr.Marmion." She laughed.

"Besides, where was the special peculiarity in that portrait that you should treasure it in pencil so conventionally ?--Your drawing is not good .-- Where was the point or need ?" "I have no right to reply to that directly," I responded.