Part 25 (1/2)
”I am sorry for being a little hasty--” he began, with a candid smile.
”Not at all,” interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw good-humoredly. ”Don't mention it. There was a lady in the case; that's excuse enough for any two men quarreling. By the way, my daughter is not with me, but she would no doubt wish to have her kind regards--that is to say--well, well, let me see the pictures.”
In the course of this speech the affable gentleman had been reminded by the senior partner that one must be careful not to commit oneself rashly. It was odd how often he required these warnings nowadays--and how frequently they came just half a sentence too late.
”Brush been busy?” he added hastily.
Lucas pointed to a dozen or more canvases stacked against the wall.
”Fairly,” he said.
”May I look at them? Oh, don't trouble to take them off the floor. I'll just turn them over for myself, if I may.”
He stooped over the stack and moved each canvas in turn till he could catch a glimpse of its face. With this ocular demonstration that there actually were pictures upon all of them he seemed content, for he turned to his host with an approving smile.
”You have not been altogether idle, then?”
”Altogether idle!”
Hillary turned at the exclamation.
”Poor old Lucas is working himself to death,” he said, with his gentle and insinuating air.
”Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Walkingshaw, and surveyed the artist with increased respect.
”Hillary is inclined to talk--” began Lucas, but was silenced by a ferocious stamp of Frank's boot.
”Hush, you idiot!” he murmured.
”No, Lucas,” said his friend readily, ”I am not inclined to talk as a rule, but I cannot bear to hear you maligned. I never saw a man work as you do.”
”Is that your candid opinion of our friend?” smiled Mr. Walkingshaw with a pleasant air.
”It feebly endeavors to express my opinion,” replied the engaging young man. ”He paints on an average one picture per six hours of daylight; and the most astounding thing sir, is their consistently high merit.”
Lucas looked decidedly uncomfortable.
”I don't sell them, unfortunately,” he blurted out.
The W.S. turned grave.
”None of them?” he inquired.
”I haven't sold much lately.”
”How's that?”
”The public is not yet educated up to him,” said Hillary. ”But between ourselves, Mr. Walkingshaw, if I had a thousand pounds at this moment, I should put it all in Vernons; they'll be worth five thousand in ten years' time at a modest estimate--a very modest estimate.”
”You are a critic?” inquired the W.S.