“Could I not assist you in any way?” suggested Robert, as they sat together after luncheon in the smoking-room. “I am convinced that you over-try your strength. I should be so glad to help you, and I know a little of chemistry.”
“Do you, indeed?” said Raffles Haw, raising his eyebrows. “I had no idea of that; it is very seldom that the artistic and the scientific faculties go together.”
“I don't know that I have either particularly developed. But I have taken classes, and I worked for two years in the laboratory at Sir Josiah Mason's Institute.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” Haw replied with emphasis. “That may be of great importance to us. It is very possible—indeed, almost certain—that I shall avail myself of your offer of assistance, and teach you something of my chemical methods, which I may say differ considerably from those of the orthodox school. The time, however, is hardly ripe for that. What is it, Jones?”
“A note, sir.”
The butler handed it in upon a silver salver. Haw broke the seal and ran his eye over it.
“Tut! tut! It is from Lady Morsley, asking me to the Lord-Lieutenant's ball. I cannot possibly accept. It is very kind of them, but I do wish they would leave me alone. Very well, Jones. I shall write. Do you know, Robert, I am often very unhappy.”
He frequently called the young artist by his Christian name, especially in his more confidential moments.
“I have sometimes feared that you were,” said the other sympathetically. “But how strange it seems, you who are yet young, healthy, with every faculty for enjoyment, and a millionaire.”
“Ah, Robert,” cried Haw, leaning back in his chair, and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. “You have put your finger upon my trouble. If I were a millionaire I might be happy, but, alas, I am no millionaire!”