"Thank you," said Mr. Masters, clasping the other's hand. "I was just going to suggest it. My motor–car is outside. Let us go at once."
"I will follow you in a moment," said John, and, pausing only to snatch a handful of money from the safe for incidental expenses and to tell the boy that he would be back on Monday, he picked up the well–filled week–end bag which he always kept ready, and hurried after the other.
Inside the car Mr. Masters was confidential.
"My daughter," he said, "comes of age to–morrow."
"Oh, it's a daughter?" said John in surprise. "Is she pretty?"
"She is considered to be the prettiest girl in the county."
"Really?" said John. He thought a moment, and added, "Can we stop at a post–office? I must send an important business telegram." He took out a form and wrote "Macmacmacmacmac, London. Shall not be back till Wednesday. Blunt."
The car stopped and then sped on again.
"Amy has never been any trouble to me," said Mr. Masters, "but I am getting old now, and I would give a thousand pounds to see her happily married."
"To whom would you give it?" asked John, whipping out his pocket–book.
"Tut, tut, a mere figure of speech. But I would settle a hundred thousand pounds on her on the wedding–day."
"Indeed?" said John thoughtfully. "Can we stop at another post–office?" he added, bringing out his fountain–pen again.
He took out a second telegraph form and wrote:
"Macmacmacmacmac, London. Shall not be back till Friday. Blunt."
The car dashed on again, and an hour later arrived at a commodious mansion standing in its own well–timbered grounds of upwards of several acres. At the front door a graceful figure was standing.
"My solicitor, dear, Mr. Blunt," said Mr. Masters.
"It is very good of you to come all this way on my father's business," she said shyly.
"Not at all," said John. "A week or—or a fortnight—or―" he looked at her again—"or—three weeks, and the thing is done."
"Is making a will so very difficult?"
"It's a very tricky and complicated affair indeed. However, I think we shall pull it off. Er—might I send an important business telegram?"
"Macmacmacmacmac, London," wrote John. "Very knotty case. Date of return uncertain. Please send more cash for incidental expenses. Blunt."
Yes, you have guessed what happened. It is an every–day experience in a solicitor's life. John Blunt and Amy Masters were married at St. George's, Hanover Square, last May. The wedding was a quiet one owing to mourning in the bride's family—the result of a too sudden perusal of Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton, Macnaughton & Macnaughton's bill of costs. As Mr. Masters said with his expiring breath: he didn't mind paying for our Mr. Blunt's skill; nor yet for our Mr. Blunt's valuable time—even if most of it was spent in courting Amy; nor, again, for our Mr. Blunt's tips to servants; but he did object to being charged the first–class railway fare both ways when our Mr. Blunt had come down and gone up again in the car. And perhaps I ought to add that that is the drawback to this fine profession. One is so often misunderstood.
XLVII
The Painter
Mr. Paul Samways was in a mood of deep depression. The artistic temperament is peculiarly given to these moods, but in Paul's case there was reason why he should take a gloomy view of things. His masterpiece, "The Shot Tower from Battersea Bridge," together with the companion picture "Battersea Bridge from the Shot Tower," had been purchased by a dealer for seventeen and sixpence. His sepia monochrome, "Night," had brought him an I.O.U. for five shillings. These were his sole earnings for the last six weeks, and starvation stared him in the face.
"If only I had a little capital!" he cried aloud in despair. "Enough to support me until my Academy picture is finished." His Academy picture was a masterly study entitled, "Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll," and he had been compelled to stop halfway across the Channel through sheer lack of ultramarine.
The clock struck two, reminding him that he had not lunched. He rose wearily and went to the little cupboard which served as a larder. There was but little there to make a satisfying meal—half a loaf of bread, a corner of cheese, and a small tube of Chinese white. Mechanically he set the things out….
He had finished and was clearing away when there came a knock at the door. His charwoman, whose duty it was to clean his brushes every week, came in with a card.
"A lady to see you, Sir," she said.
Paul read the card in astonishment.
"The Duchess of Winchester," he exclaimed. "What on earth—Show her in, please." Hastily picking up a brush and the first tube which came to hand, he placed himself in a dramatic position before his easel and set to work.
"How do you do, Mr. Samways?" said the Duchess.
"G–good afternoon," said Paul, embarrassed both by the presence of a duchess in his studio and by his sudden discovery that he was touching up a sunset with a tube of carbolic tooth paste.
"Our mutual friend, Lord Ernest Topwood, recommended me to come to you."
Paul, who had never met Lord Ernest, but had once seen his name in a ha'penny paper beneath a photograph of Mr. Arnold Bennett, bowed silently.
"As you probably guess, I want you to paint my daughter's portrait."
Paul opened his mouth to say that he was only a landscape painter, and then closed it again. After all, it was hardly fair to bother her Grace with technicalities.
"I hope you can undertake this commission," she said pleadingly.
"I shall be delighted," said Paul. "I am rather busy just now, but I could begin at two o'clock on Monday."
"Excellent," said the Duchess. "Till Monday, then." And Paul, still clutching the tooth paste, conducted her to her carriage.
Punctually at 3.15 on Monday Lady Hermione appeared. Paul drew a deep breath of astonishment when he saw her, for she was lovely beyond compare. All his skill as a landscape painter would be needed if he were to do justice to her beauty. As quickly as possible he placed her in position and set to work….
"May I let my face go for a moment?" said Lady Hermione after three hours of it.
"Yes, let us stop," said Paul. He had outlined her in charcoal and burnt cork, and it would be too dark to do any more that evening.
"Tell me where you first met Lord Ernest?" she asked, as she came down to the fire.
"At the Savoy in June," said Paul boldly.
Lady Hermione laughed merrily. Paul, who had not regarded his last remark as one of his best things, looked at her in surprise.
"But your portrait of him was in the Academy in May!" she smiled.
Paul made up his mind quickly.
"Lady Hermione," he said with gravity, "do not speak to me of Lord Ernest again. Nor," he added hurriedly, "to Lord Ernest of me. When your picture is finished I will tell you why. Now it is time you went." He woke the Duchess up, and made a few commonplace remarks about the weather. "Remember," he whispered to Lady Hermione as he saw them to their car. She nodded and smiled.
The sittings went on daily. Sometimes Paul would paint rapidly with great sweeps of the brush; sometimes he would spend an hour trying to get on his palette the exact shade of green bice for the famous Winchester emeralds; sometimes in despair he would take a sponge and wipe the whole picture out, and then start madly again. And sometimes he would stop work altogether and tell Lady Hermione about his home–life in Worcestershire. But always, when he woke the Duchess up at the end of the sitting, he would say "Remember!" and Lady Hermione would nod back at him.
It was a spring–like day in March when the picture was finished, and nothing remained to do but to paint in the signature.