“Well, Evelyn proposed to elope with you last time he was here,” said Philip. “I think I shall commission him to paint your portrait.”
“Who wants the picture of an old woman like me?” said Mrs. Home. “But get him to do Madge’s.”
Philip considered this.
“That’s an idea,” he said. “He could paint her divinely. Really, mother—if ah! a big ‘if.’ Do you know, I’m rather uneasy about Evelyn.”
“Why? I thought he was getting on so well.”
“He is as far as painting goes. They think very highly of him. But the moment he gets a couple of hundred pounds he buys a motor-car or something, and next week his watch is in pawn. Now, when you are twenty-five, it is time to stop doing that.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Home. “He is dreadful! Last time he was here he gave me a pearl-brooch that must have cost him fifty pounds.”
“That was to induce you to run away with him,” remarked Philip. “That was quite understood, and I think you behaved rather badly in not doing so.”
“Philip, you mustn’t!”
“No, nor must you! And now I’m going on the river. If I get drowned it will be your fault for having suggested it.”