ment, help me much, do
you think? or would he, if he could?--or Barnes, his noble son and heir,
after him?

Ethel (musing). Barnes would not, perhaps, but papa might even still,
and you have friends who are fond of you.

Clive. No--no one can help me: and my art, Ethel, is not only my choice
and my love, but my honour too. I shall never distinguish myself in it:
I may take smart likenesses, but that is all. I am not fit to grind my
friend Ridley's colours for him. Nor would my father, who loves his
own profession so, make a good general probably. He always says so.
I thought better of myself when I began as a boy; and was a conceited
youngster, expecting to carry it all before me. But as I walked the
Vatican, and looked at Raphael, and at the great Michael--I knew I was
but a poor little creature; and in contemplating his genius, shrunk
up till I felt myself as small as a man looks under the dome of St.
Peter's. Why should I wish to have a great genius?--Yes, there is one
reason why I should like to have it.

Ethel. And that is?

Clive. To give it you, if it pleased you, Ethel. But I might wish for
the roc's egg: there is no way of robbing the bird. I must take a humble
place, and you want a brilliant one. A brilliant one! Oh, Ethel, what
a standard we folks measure fame by! To have your name in the Morning
Post, and to go to three balls every night. To have your dress described
at the Drawing-Room; and your arrival, from a round of visits in the
country, at your town-house; and the entertainment of the Marchioness of
Farin----

Ethel. Sir, if you please, no calling names.

Clive. I wonder at it. For you are in the world, and you love the world,
whatever you may say. And I wonder that one of your strength of mind
should so care for it. I think my simple old father is much finer than
all your grandees: his single-mindedness more lofty than all their
bowing, and haughtiness, and scheeming. What are you thinking of, as you
stand in that pretty attitude--like Mnemosyne--with your finger on your
chin?

Ethel. Mnemosyne! who was she? I think I like you best when you are
quiet and gentle, and not when you are flaming out and sarcastic, sir.
And so you think you will never be a famous painter? They are quite
in society here. I was so pleased, because two of them dined at the
Tuileries when grandmamma was there; and she mistook one, who was
covered all over with crosses, for an ambassador, I believe, till the
Queen cal