Juan Gris The Open Window painting

Juan Gris The Open Window paintingJuan Gris The Guitar paintingJuan Gris Man in the Cafe painting
be a Member of Parliament. He never got in and he was still unmarried. A kind of truculent honesty which he could never dissemble for long, always stood in his way. It was bitter for him to be still living at Home, dependent on his mother for pocket money, liable to be impelled by her into unwelcome jobs two or three times a year while Roger had established himself almost effortlessly and was sitting back in comfort to await the World Revolution.
Not that Lucy was really rich, Basil hastened to assure me, but she had been left an orphan at an early age and her originally modest fortune had doubled itself. “Fifty-eight thousand in trustee stock, old boy. I wanted Lucy to take it out and let me handle it for her. I could have fixed her up very nicely. But Roger wasn’t playing. He’s always groaning about things being bourgeois. I can’t think of anything more bourgeois than three and a half per cent.”
“Is she hideous?” I asked.
“No, that’s the worst part about it. She’s a grand girl. She’s all right for a chap.”
“What like?”
“Remember Trixie?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well not at all like her.”