Percival, who was in secret league with Clara against this restlessness for renown which it is to be fervently hoped the good sense of Europe will refuse to gratify, had done his best, by a pleasant irony and banter, to ridicule Henry out of his martial discontent. In vain—Henry only resented his kinsman’s disapproval of his honourable ambition, and hence his regret that Sir Percival did not “make the most of his station.” Surely, did he do so, a word from a man of such political importance in point of territory would have due effect on the War Office. Henry thought himself entitled not only to a chance of fighting, but to the dignity of Major. All this, by little and little, though in her own artless words, and in wifelike admiration of Henry’s military genius as well as ardour, I extracted from Clara, who (all women being more or less, though often unconsciously, artful in the confidences with which they voluntarily honour our sex) had her own reason for frankness; she had seen Sir Percival since breakfast, and he had sought to convince her that it would be wise to let Henry have his own way. The cunning creature wished me to reason with Tracey, and set before him all the dangers to limb and life to which even a skirmish with barbarians might expose a life so invaluable as her Henry’s. “I could see him depart without a tear, if it were to defend his country,” said she, with spirit. “But to think of all the hardships he must undergo in a savage land, and fighting for nothing I can comprehend, against a people I never heard of—_that_ is hard! it is so reckless in him—and, poor dear, his health _is_ delicate, though you would not think it!” I promised all that a discreet diplomatist under such untoward circumstances could venture to promise; and on the Painter entering the room, poor Clara went up-stairs, trying her womanly best to smile away her tears. Left alone with the artist, he drew my attention to some pictures on the wall which had been painted by Sir Percival, commended their gusto and brilliancy of execution, and then said, “If our host had begun life on fifty pounds a year, he would have been a great painter.” “Does it require poverty in order to paint well?” “It requires, I suppose, a motive to do anything exceedingly well; and what motive could Sir Percival Tracey have to be a professed painter?” “I think you have hit on the truth in his painting, and perhaps in his other accomplishments: all he wants is the concentration of motive.” “Is it not that want which makes three-fourths of the difference between the famous man and the obscure man?” asked the Painter.