But your born sketcher is oblivious of all on earth save
his chosen art; and Alan was essentially a painter in fibre,
diverted by pure circumstance into a Chancery practice.
The very pictures in the gallery failed to interest Herminia, she
knew not why. Alan couldn't rouse her to enthusiasm over his
beloved Buonfigli. Those naive flaxen-haired angels, with sweetly
parted lips, and baskets of red roses in their delicate hands, own
sisters though they were to the girlish Lippis she had so admired
at Florence, moved her heart but faintly. Try as she might to like
them, she responded to nothing Perugian in any way.
At the end of a week or two, however, Alan began to complain of
constant headache. He was looking very well, but grew uneasy and
restless. Herminia advised him to give up sketching for a while,
those small streets were so close; and he promised to yield to her
wishes in the matter. Yet he grew worse next day, so that
Herminia, much alarmed, called in an Italian doctor. Perugia
boasted no English one. The Italian felt his pulse, and listened
to his symptoms.
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