A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, swinging his stick, convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet wondering at her unusual note of pessimism, and Clytie called a cab, as she was late, and drove home with a world of strange and troubling thoughts. On the 1st of August Clytie received a visit from the boy Jack, who had just come to London for his summer holiday. He had grown greatly during the past year, had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from him and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back in her chair and looked at him curiously as he sat, in all the self-consciousness of a newly awakened sense of propriety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling his glengarry cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The motive of his worth in that respect had gone with the picturesqueness of his old garments and dirt and wild elf locks; but he was handsome in spite of his cropped brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there was something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and the refinement of his face, with its bright dark eyes and finely cut lips that disclosed a perfect row of white, even teeth. And yet there was cruelty around the mouth, the sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie had impressed upon her famous picture. He had been transformed from the animal into the human being, it is true; but that does not necessarily imply that the human being does not retain many of the passions of the animal. With the old Jack the untamable was degradingly confused with lowness, but it shone out all the clearer now by reason of the humanising of his face. Clytie noted all this as they talked together. “You are getting quite a man,” she said. “When are you leaving school?” “Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year,” replied Jack. “Then I'm to be 'prenticed.” “To a joiner?” “I suppose so,” said Jack. And after he had scraped a little with his toe on the ground he looked up and added: “Do you think I needn't be a joiner if I didn't want to?” “I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, Jack.” “Really!” and his face brightened. “I have been thinking I should like to be something else.” “What is that?” “A carver and gilder,” said Jack bashfully. “Where do the especial charms of that trade come in?” asked Clytie, laughing. “I dunno,” said Jack; “I only thought it.” There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie noticed it, saw that she had wounded susceptibilities. “Tell me, Jack, why you want to be a carver and gilder.” “I could make all the picture-frames for you and Miss Marchpane,” he replied. “Thank you, Jack,” said Clytie, touched at the boyish idea. “But perhaps we'll make you something better than a carver or gilder. I don't know what you could be. What could we make of you?”