“Can’t!” said Matthew.
“Well, come into the studio a minute, anyhow.”
“Haven’t time; I shall miss my train.”
“I don’t care if you miss forty trains. You must come in. You’ve got to see that fountain,” Cyril insisted crossly.
Matthew yielded. When they emerged into the street again, after six minutes of Cyril’s savage interest in his own work, Matthew remembered Mrs. Scales.
“Of course you’ll write to your mother?” he said.
“Yes,” said Cyril, “I’ll write; but if you happen to see her, you might tell her.”
“I will,” said Matthew. “Shall you go over to Paris?”
“What! To see Auntie?” He smiled. “I don’t know. Depends. If the mater will fork out all my exes ... it’s an idea,” he said lightly, and then without any change of tone, “Naturally, if you’re going to idle about here all morning you aren’t likely to catch the twelve-five.”
Matthew got into the cab, while the driver, the stump of a cigar between his exposed teeth, leaned forward and lifted the reins away from the tilted straw hat.