“I must have a look at them some day,” he declared. “I am going to work this morning, Mrs. Cox. Lunch at one o’clock.”
He took rugs and established himself with a pile of books at the back of a grassy knoll, sheltered from the wind, with the sea almost at his feet. He sharpened his pencil and numbered the page of his notebook. Then he looked up towards the Hall garden and found himself dreaming. The sunshine was delicious, and a gentle optimism seemed to steal over him.
“I am a fool!” he murmured to himself. “I am catching some part of these people’s folly. Mr. Fentolin is only an ordinary, crotchety invalid with queer tastes. On the big things he is probably like other men. I shall go to him this morning.”
A sea-gull screamed over his head. Little, brown sailed fishing-boats came gliding down the harbourway. A pleasant, sensuous joyfulness seemed part of the spirit of the day. Hamel stretched himself out upon the dry sand.
“Work be hanged!” he exclaimed.
A soft voice answered him almost in his ear, a voice which was becoming very familiar.
“A most admirable sentiment, my young friend, which you seem to be doing your best to live up to. Not a line written, I see.”
He sat up upon his rug. Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, was there by his side. Behind was the faithful Meekins, with an easel under his arm.
“I trust that your first night in your new abode has been a pleasant one?” Mr. Fentolin asked.
“I slept quite well, thanks,” Hamel replied. “Glad to see you’re going to paint.”