One afternoon, the Colonel brought a tall, sturdy young fellow with him, whom he introduced as Charlie Oxton. He was Jean's distant cousin and her grandfather's heir, and he made himself at home at once. Miss Lorraine liked his honest frankness and Jean soon began asking him about her former friends and the old servants at her grandfather's.
"Yes," he said, "they are all there, waiting to welcome you back; aren't you coming?"
"Don't you know," said Jean, "the reason of my leaving?"
"Oh, yes, but I expect you are tired of painting pictures by this time, aren't you? And you'll never make your fortune at it. All the artists I have met—and I've knocked about with a good few—are all poor, miserable beggars. I wish you would chuck it up, and write and tell the old man so."
Jean looked a little offended; the young man went on—
"I'm out a good bit, and we only see each other in the evening, but he's getting old, and I fancy the house wants a woman to look after it."
"There are Elsie and Mary," said Jean. "He does not like women; he never has. And if I gave up painting to-morrow, which I shouldn't think of doing, he would never take me back; he said he wouldn't."
"Oh, I'd talk him round," the young man said cheerfully. "He isn't half a bad old chap, if you take him the right way. Do you remember old Rawlings?"
Jean smiled.
"As if I could forget him! Does he still potter about and talk philosophy amongst his flowers?"