Lightmark dropped the paint-brush he was cleaning, with a movement of genuine surprise.
"I never knew it," he said; "I will run up and have a yarn with him.
I thought he wasn't expected till to-morrow at the earliest?"
"Nor he was, Mr. Lightmark. But he travelled right through from
Italy, and got to London late last night. He slept at the Great
Eastern, and I went up to him in the City this morning. He hasn't
been here more than half an hour."
"Nobody told me," said Lightmark. "Gad! I am glad. I will take him up the picture. Will you carry the other traps into the house, Bullen?"
He packed them up, and then stood a trifle irresolutely, his hand feeling over the coins in his pocket. Presently he produced two of them, a sovereign and a shilling.
"By the way, Bullen!" he said, "there is a little function common in your trade, the gift of a new hat. It costs a guinea, I am told; though judging from the general appearance of longshoremen, the result seems a little inadequate. Bullen, we are pretty old friends now, and I expect I shall not be down here so often just at present. Allow me—to give you a new hat."
The foreman's huge fist closed on the artist's slender one.
"Thank you, sir! You are such a facetious gentleman. You may depend upon me."
"I do," said Lightmark, with a sudden lapse into seriousness, and frowning a little.
If something had cast a shadow over the artist for the moment he must have had a faculty of quick recovery, for there was certainly no shade of constraint upon his handsome face when a minute later he made his way up the balcony steps and into the office labelled "Private," and, depositing his canvas upon the floor, treated his friend to a prolonged handshaking.