There was no fear of that.

But if he was finally to be an artist, he would be a first-rate one.

Let him only get more training; give him time and opportunity; and he would be as good as any one.
Morrison, plainly, had thought him a conceited ass.

Well, let him! What chance had he ever had of proving what was in him?
As he hung over the gate smoking, he thought of his father and mother, and of his childhood in the little Kendal shop--the bookseller's shop which had been the source and means of his truest education.
Not that he had been a neglected child.

Far from it.