“My dear Tom, I never paint myself, it is you who paint me; and to do you justice, you paint me as black as you can.”
Poor Arthur Wrexham looked appealingly at the company.
“I think I shall go for a little stroll,” he said. “When are you likely to be ready, Maud?”
Maud finished her coffee.
“I’m coming now,” she said. “Don’t forget to-morrow, Mr. Carlingford—you call for us at nine.”
“They’re going up Pentelicus,” said Arthur plaintively; “I’m going too.”
Tom looked at him severely.
“Yes, it’s the one you told me was Hymettus,” he said. “It’s time you went. You won’t confuse them again.”
“I didn’t confuse them before,” said Arthur. “You can’t confuse two things, unless you know them both, and then mix them up. I didn’t know either.”
“Well, you’ll know one after to-morrow,” said Maud encouragingly, “and then you can get at the other by an exhaustive process.”