' In fact, the passion for painting had come on
me very strongly of late. My dreams had from the first been of
wandering with Winnie in a paradise of colour, and these dreams had
of late been more frequent: the paradise of colour had been growing
richer and rarer.
He shook his head gravely and said, 'No, my dear; your mother would
never allow it.'
'Why not?' I said; 'is painting low too?'
'Cyril Aylwin is low, at least so your mother and aunt say, especially
your aunt. I have not perceived it myself, but then your mother's
perceptive faculties are extraordinary--quite extraordinary.'
'Did the lowness come from his being a painter, father?' I asked.
'Really, child, you are puzzling me. But I have observed you now for
some weeks, and I quite believe that you would make one of the best
rubbers who ever held a ball. I am going to Salisbury next week, and
you shall then make your _debut_.'
This was in the midst of a very severe winter we had some years ago,
when all Europe was under a coating of ice.
'But, father,' I said, 'shan't we find it rather cold?'
'Well,' said my father, with a bland smile, 'I will not pretend that
Salisbury Cathedral is particularly warm in this weather, but in
winter I always rub in knee-caps and mittens.
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