Part 13 (1/2)

As the door clicked behind the children, Fairfax laughed.

”What a little trump she is! She thinks the game is worth the candle!”

CHAPTER XIX

That miserable foot of his gave him pain. The unusual strain of standing long at his work, the tramps he took to save car-fare, wearied him, and he was finally laid up for ten days. No one missed him, apparently, and the long, painful hours dragged, and he saw no one but his little landladies. His mother, as if she knew, sent him extra money and wonderful letters breathing pride in him and confidence in his success.

When he was finally up and setting forth again to the studio, a visitor was announced. Fairfax thought of Benvenuto--(he would have been welcome)--he thought of Bella, and not of his Aunt Caroline.

”My dear boy, why didn't you let us know you had been ill?”

There is something exquisite to a man in the presence of a woman in his sick-room, be she lovely or homely, old or young.

”This is awfully, awfully good of you, Auntie. I've had a mighty bad time with this foot of mine.”

Mrs. Carew in her street dress, ready for an all-day's shopping, came airily in and laid her hand on her nephew's shoulder. Fairfax thought he saw a look of Bella, a look of his mother. He eagerly leaned forward and kissed his visitor.

”It's mighty good of you, Auntie.”

”No, my dear boy, it isn't! I really didn't know you were ill. We would have sent you things from the Buckingham. Our own cook is so poor.”

She couldn't sit down, she had just run in on her way to shop. She had something to say to him....

”What's wrong, Aunt Caroline?”

His aunt took a seat beside him on the bed. Her dove-like eyes wandered about his room, bare save for the drawings on the walls and on a chair in the corner, a cast covered by a wet cloth. Mrs. Carew's hands clasped over her silk bead purse hanging empty between the rings.

”I have come to ask a great favour of you, Antony.”

He repeated, in astonishment, ”Of _me_--why, Auntie, anything that I can do....”

Mrs. Carew's slender figure undulated, the sculptor thought. She made him think of a swan--of a lily. Her pale, ineffectual features had an old-fas.h.i.+oned loveliness. He put his hand over his aunt's. He murmured devotedly--

”You must let me do anything there is to do.”

”I am in debt, Tony,” she murmured, tremulously. ”Your uncle gives me _so_ little money--it's impossible to run the establishment.”

He exclaimed hotly, ”It's a _shame_, Aunt Caroline.”

”Henry thinks we spend a great deal of money, but I like to dress the children well.”

Her nephew recalled Bella's wardrobe. Mrs. Carew, as though she confessed a readily-forgiven fault, whispered--

”I am so fond of bric-a-brac, Antony.”

He could not help smiling.