"
"O, yes, of course; you've your schools, and that kind of thing; but
you might give more time to art than you do, especially if you left the
management of the house more to Mrs. Plumptree. I think you waste time and
energy upon details."
"I hope I know my duty as mistress of a large establishment, papa, and that
I shall never feel the responsibility of administering a large income any
less than I do at present. It would be a bad thing for you if I became
careless of your interests in order to roam about sketching toadstools and
blackberry-bushes."
Mr. Granger looked as if he were rather doubtful upon this point, but it
was evidently wisest not to push the discussion too far.
"Will you be so kind as to show us your portfolio, Miss Lovel?" he asked.
"Of course she will," answered her father promptly; "she will only be
too happy to exhibit her humble performances to Miss Granger. Bring your
drawing-book, Clary."
Clarissa would have given the world to refuse. A drawing-book is in some
measure a silent confidante--almost a journal. She did not know how far her
random sketches--some of them mere vagabondage of the pencil, jotted down
half unconsciously--might betray the secrets of her inner life to the cold
eyes of Miss Granger.
"I'd better bring down my finished drawings, papa; those that were mounted
for you at Belforet," she said.
"Nonsense, child; Mr. Granger wants to see your rough sketches, not
those stiff schoolgirl things, which I suppose were finished by your
drawing-master.
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