“You have a statue, or a group, or something or other, have n't you?” said my lord, after a very long interval.
“I have a half-finished model,” said the youth, not without a certain irritation at the indifference of his questioner.
“Scarcely light enough to look at it to-night,—eh, Baynton?”
“Scarcely!” was the dry answer.
“We can go in the morning though, eh?”
The other nodded a cool assent.
My lord now filled his glass, drank it off, and refilled, with the air of a man nerving himself for a great undertaking,—and such was indeed the case. He was about to deliver himself of a sentiment, and the occasion was one to which Baynton could not lend his assistance.
“I have been thinking,” said he, “that if that same estate we spoke of, Baynton,—that Welsh property, you know, and that thing in Ireland,—should fall in, I 'd buy some statues and have a gallery!”
“Devilish costly work you'd find it,” muttered Baynton.
“Well, I suppose it is,—not more so than a racing stable, after all.”