A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. He turned, and beheld Winifred. " "My courage gave out. Sir John hesitated. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. That’s really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. She stood up before him, smiling faintly.
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