It was among artistic people. "So much the better," rejoined Sir Rowland. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom.
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