Earle looked first at the artist, then at his hand.
"Can I take it?" he asked. "Is it a loyal hand?"
Gregory Leslie laughed aloud.
"Bless the boy—the poet, I ought to say; what does he mean?"
"I mean, in all simplicity, just what I say," said Earle. "Is it the hand of a loyal man?"
"I have never been anything save loyal to you," replied the artist, wondering more and more at Earle's strange manner. "I shall understand you better in a short time," he said. "How ill you look—your face is quite changed."
"I have been ill for some weeks," said Earle. "I am well now."
"And how are they all at Brackenside—the honest farmer and his kindly wife; bright, intelligent Miss Mattie; and last, though by no means least, my lovely model, Miss Innocence?"
"They are all well at Brackenside," said Earle, evasively.
But the artist looked keenly at him, and from the tone of his voice he felt sure that all was not well.