. Two girls on a barge. tter of the clogs which have altered in thesestreets of a thousand summers. Besides, there is* Peeping Tom, one remembers, up among thewindows of the Kings Head Inn. He has no longerany need to bore a little augerhole, because he hasno choice but watch the people passing in the streetuntil his stone eyes chip out with the weather. We had seen a picture of Coventry, Edna and I,in London. A picture of the street through whichGodiva rode, told faithfully and tenderly in sobertruthful tones. The painter seemed to have trailedhis wonderful pencils through the colour regionwh
. Two girls on a barge. tter of the clogs which have altered in thesestreets of a thousand summers. Besides, there is* Peeping Tom, one remembers, up among thewindows of the Kings Head Inn. He has no longerany need to bore a little augerhole, because he hasno choice but watch the people passing in the streetuntil his stone eyes chip out with the weather. We had seen a picture of Coventry, Edna and I,in London. A picture of the street through whichGodiva rode, told faithfully and tenderly in sobertruthful tones. The painter seemed to have trailedhis wonderful pencils through the colour regionwhere the heron gets his wings. He had dreamedand painted those steep cobble stones and twistedgable turrets and sunken wTindow-panes which,gathering conviction in ruddy tints of sepia, formedthe street in Coventry that we had come to we sought it conscientiously—by tram. Sitting in the cramped street car, w7e went upthrough Coventry, seeking the painters were ready to spring out at the first appear-. 148 TWO GIRLS ON A BARGE ance of the street, and, with umbrellas used asalpenstocks, do homage to the artist and hisimmortal canvas. For a long time we journeyedin the serenity inborn of perfect confidence—pastthe three tall spires, those tapering fingers of thecity glinting the sensitive colour of the quick of ahuman nail; by the tiny white statue of the civicnotable; and out beyond that desert place whichnestles mildly desolate and comfortably sad aboutthe little station-house, never doubting but thepainter would keep faith with us. A thousandtimes we found the spirit of the work; nowhere itsarrangement. The picture was arranged. And thetram stopped at the terminus, and they changedthe tired horses. But there are real streets in Coventry. Andtheir crumpled devious turnings, threading backunder timbered house-fronts which project in theupper story like petrified forked lightning, if youcan imagine such a thing grown very old anddecrepit, led us softly throug
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