My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. I am a young person seeking employment and freedom and self-development, just as in quite our first talk of all I said I wanted to be. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. “Your father, of course,” he said, “must come to realize just how Splendid you are! He doesn’t understand.
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