CHAPTER XXVIII
Mr. Fentolin, his carriage drawn up close to the beach, was painting steadily when Hamel stood once more by his side. His eyes moved only from the sea to the canvas. He never turned his head.
“So your wooing has not prospered, my young friend,” he remarked gently. “I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Your niece has gone out to lunch,” Hamel replied shortly.
Mr. Fentolin stopped painting. His face was full of concern as he looked up at Hamel.
“My dear sir,” he exclaimed, “how can I apologise! Of course she has gone out to lunch. She has gone out to Lady Saxthorpe’s. I remember the subject being discussed. I myself, in fact, was the instigator of her going. I owe you a thousand apologies, Mr. Hamel. Let me make what amends are possible for your useless journey. Dine with us to-night.”
“You are very kind.”
“A poor amends,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “A morning like this was made for lovers. Sunshine and blue sky, a salt breeze flavoured just a little with that lavender, and a stroll through my spring gardens, where my hyacinths are like a field of purple and gold, a mantle of jewels upon the brown earth. Ah, well! One’s thoughts will wander to the beautiful things of life. There were once women who loved me, Mr. Hamel.”
Hamel looked doubtfully at the strange little figure in the chair. Was this genuine, he wondered, a voluntary outburst, or was it some subtle attempt to incite sympathy? Mr. Fentolin seemed almost to have read his thought.
“It is not for the sake of your pity that I say this,” he continued. “Mine is only the passing across the line which age as well as infirmity makes inevitable. No one in the world who lives to grow old, and who has loved and felt the fire of it in his veins, can pass that line without sorrow, or look back without a pang. I am among a great army. Well, well, I shall paint no more to-day,” he concluded abruptly.