One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart.
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