Part 3 (1/2)

The artist took the hint. His strong, pleasant face became a mirror reflecting the very truth; his blue eyes were filled with a light brighter even than the inspiration of art; his mellow voice burst out abruptly--

”I love Jean!”

The effect was rather like discharging a cannon and bringing down a sc.r.a.p of plaster.

”Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Walkingshaw. ”You mean my daughter?”

”I should think I do!”

”I merely asked for information, Mr. Vernon.”

”Then I can guarantee your information!” Lucas smiled frankly, but he might as well have smiled at the hat-rack in the hall. ”I'm quite aware you don't think me good enough for her--and I agree with you. But if it comes to that, who is? You may say my name's neither Turner nor Rubens; you may think it's like my dashed impudence asking you to let me make a short cut to heaven across your hearth--”

It was at this point that Mr. Walkingshaw discharged his ordnance.

”What is your income?” he inquired coldly.

His aim was more accurate. The artist descended to earth with a thud.

”My _income_?” he gasped.

”Your income,” repeated the bombardier.

The artist ran his fingers convulsively through his hair.

”Now, what the deuce should I put it at?”

”An approximately correct figure,” suggested Mr. Walkingshaw.

”To tell you the truth, I haven't the least idea.”

”A thousand?”

”Oh, good G.o.d, no!”

”A hundred?”

”Oh, more than that.”

”Can't you suggest a figure yourself?”

”Well, let's say that in a good year I make anything up to three or four hundred pounds, and in a bad year anything down to fifty or sixty.”

”We'll say that if you like. Do you expect any legacies to fall in to you--anything of that kind?”

”Unfortunately I don't.”

Mr. Walkingshaw regarded him with contemptuous severity.

”Then you propose to marry my daughter on maybe fifty or sixty pounds a year?”

”I told you that was in a bad year,” protested the artist.