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Weston can manage alone, replied the old man, nodding towards the sulky manservant. He looked up again at the tumultuous sky; he really felt inspired and stimulated, almost as if with the aid of the bright sunbeams he could peer into those affairs of mankind that amused him, Simon Forman, so much, and from which he drew so comfortable a profit. A fine scattered rain fell, coming like a veil between the three men and the views on either bank. They passed some villas and pleasure-houses, some old-fashioned with crooked chimneys and ornate gables and turretings, some in the new classic Italian style. The willows stretched their long yellow and green tresses on to the drenched lawns; a stray beam of sunshine picked out the gilt of the weather-cock of a distant church or the golden ball on a summer-house standing amid the tattered flower-beds of a river-side garden. Bright flowers trailed broken petals across the fresh English grass; the muted white of swans showed where they rocked on the reaches of the cloudy river. The wind gathered force and blew away the rain; boughs laden with fluttering leaves bent before its fury and then tossed upwards to the sky.
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