“'Rather quit the spot with which it is associated,--quit it forever,' muttered he to himself, as he paced the room, while his face grew deathly pale. “'As for me,' said I, for I wanted to say something--anything, in short--just to take his attention a little off of himself, 'whenever the world goes hard with me, I just step into my studio, lock the door, and sit down before a fresh canvas. I throw in a bit of brown, with a dash of bluish gray over it,--half sky, half atmosphere,--and I daub away till something like an effect--maybe a sunset, maybe a sullen-looking seashore, maybe a long, low prairie swell--rises before me. I don't try for details, I don't even trace an outline, but just throw in an effect here and there, and by good luck it often comes right, in some fine harmony of color, that's sure to warm up my heart and cheer my spirits; for, as there are sounds that, swelling up, fill the whole nature of man with ecstasy, there are combinations of color and tint that enter the brain by the eye, and just produce the same sense of delight.'” “And how did he accept your consolation?” asked she, smiling good-naturedly. “I don't well know if he listened to me,” said Simmy, sorrowfully; “for all he said afterwards was,-- “'Well, Mr. Crow, good-bye. I hope you 'll come to see me when you visit Dublin. You 'll easily find out my chambers in the college.' “Of course I said, 'I'd be delighted;' and there we parted.” “Poor fellow!” said Kate, but in an accent so peculiar it would have been very difficult to pronounce whether the words were of kindness or of disparagement. “And your Prince, Mr. Crow?” said she, changing her tone to one of real or affected interest; “what's to be done now that Mr. Nelligan has left us?” “I'm thinking of making a background figure of him, miss,” said Simmy. “Burnt sienna reduces many an illustrious individual to an obscure position.” “But why not ask Mr. Massingbred to take his place--you've seen him?” “Only passing the window, miss. He is a handsome young man, but that same look of fashion, the dash of style about him, is exactly what destroys the face for _me_, I feel I could make nothing of it; I 'd be always thinking of him standing inside the plate-glass window of a London club, or cantering along the alleys of the Park, or sipping his iced lemonade at Tortoni's. There's no poetizing your man of gold chains and embroidered waistcoats!” “I half suspect you are unjust in this case,” said she, with one of her dubious smiles. “I'm only saying what the effect is upon myself, miss,” said Crow.