“Do you know what father suggested? He wanted me to propose to you that I should bring the baby to the vicarage until things were more settled.”
“Yes. That sounds an excellent plan. I suppose you jumped at it.”
“Tom, you gaby!”
“And what was I to do?”
“You were to make a quantity of little statuettes, and sell them for £80 each. I don’t think he believes in the Demeter.”
Tom went up to London a day or two later to stay with Wallingthorpe, and superintend the preparations for making the new house habitable, while May and the baby remained at the vicarage. That artist, it must be confessed, was in his heart of hearts not at all displeased at Tom’s sudden change of fortune. He would be driven to do that which he could not be led to. Wallingthorpe had not a touch of an artist’s proverbial jealousy. If he saw or suspected talents he did his utmost to foster and encourage them, and in Tom he suspected something more. The boy’s persistence in working at his heathen goddess really had filled him with genuine pain. He ventured to touch on the subject one night when he and Tom were sitting together after dinner.
“And what will you work at next?” he began. “Your Demeter—that is the lady’s name, is it not?—is nearly finished, I believe?”
“Yes, she’s ready to be finished. I’m finishing her myself,” said Tom. “I don’t think you’ve seen her, have you?”
Wallingthorpe closed his eyes piously.
“I’m sure you’ll excuse my saying so, but God forbid! What are you going to do next?”