So the weeks passed away, and the new strange life was growing gradually familiar. The thought of the little Grayfleet home was still bright in the child’s mind, and every night she said a prayer that Uncle Luke had taught her, and every night she cried when she went over the beloved names, but her spirit was kindled into a new kind of feverish activity, such as she had never been conscious of before. In the course of her daily visits to the studio, where even the misanthropic Judas, as he had been profanely christened on account of his forbidding aspect, now gave her a welcome, she saw many things which awakened her wonder. Her previous ideas of Art had been chiefly connected with house-decoration and sign-painting, and she marvelled much at the creations on canvas of young Mr. Cheveley. For White she soon contracted a passionate affection, which deepened into idolatry when the good-natured Bohemian began, in his idle moments, to teach her to draw. The quickness with which she learned the rudiments of this accomplishment reminded White that her general education was being neglected altogether. ‘My dear,’ he said to her one afternoon, 41 think I shall have to send you to school.’ She was standing at his side, looking over his shoulder, as he ‘touched up’ for her a picture of a house which reeled to one side like the leaning tower at Pisa, a tree or two like inverted mops, and a very shabby-looking bridge. She looked at him right in the eyes, which was her custom. ‘I hate school,’ she said emphatically. ‘So did I at your age, and the child who doesn’t always comes to be hung. But I really think you’d pay for a little schooling. You write a shocking hand, to begin with.’ ‘Uncle Luke said it was _beau_tiful writing, and as clear as print.’ ‘Humph! well, you see, he looked at it from a different point of view. I don’t question its legibility, which after all is the first thing to be aimed at, but it wants style. Then, your grammar is more shady than befits the protégée of a master-stylist, like myself.’ ‘What’s grammar?’ asked Madeline, swinging her right foot irritably. ‘Nouns, verbs, “I am,” “thou art,” and all that? I hate ’em all.’ White laid down the drawing on which he had been busy, and took her by the two hands. ‘You hate a good many things,’ he said mildly. ‘Pray, what do you particularly like?’ ‘I like drawing. I like to hear Mamzelle singing the pretty songs, and trying on her new dresses. I like dancing, too, and music, and all that. And I like to be here with _you_. I like you better than Mr. Cheveley. If I was big enough I’d _marry_ you, and then you could take me to the theayter, where Mamzelle goes.’ ‘Pronounce it theatre,’ said White, while his eyes opened in amused wonder. ‘So you are beginning to think of marrying already, are you? Precocious child! And you’d marry _me_, would you? Why, I’m old enough to be your father, and by the time you are a young woman I shall be quite on the shelf.’