Raffles Haw was absorbed in his own thoughts.

Robert felt expectant and nervous, for he knew that something of importance lay before him.

The winter had almost passed now, and the first young shoots were beginning to peep out timidly in the face of the wind and the rain of an English March.

The snows were gone, but the countryside looked bleaker and drearier, all shrouded in the haze from the damp, sodden meadows.
"By the way, Robert," said Raffles Haw suddenly, as they walked up the Avenue.

"Has your great Roman picture gone to London ?" "I have not finished it yet." "But I know that you are a quick worker.