It was an advertisement of enamel paint and was accompanied by a most pleasing picture of a gentleman in a frock coat and a lady in a most complicated costume, delicately engaged in making “better than new,” by the aid of this enamel paint, a whole bedroom suite.
Something in the elegant négligé of the attitude of the gentleman in the frockcoat depicted pensively painting the bedstead stimulated Hugh marvellously.
He felt an insane desire to get a pot of the famous paint and set to work himself upon a similar labour.
Kate came gently across the floor and placed [p189] a jug of iced lemon water and a tumbler at his elbow.
She was about to withdraw in perfect silence, but he detained her.
“Kate,” he said.
Her most motherly look was on her face.
“What is it, dear lad?” she said, for her heart was full of futile sympathy for his straits.
“Kate,” he said yearningly. “Do you think Larkin could get me a pot of Perfect Perfection Enamel warranted to dry in ten minutes, all colours kept in stock? If I can’t enamel a bedstead this very minute I won’t answer for my reason.”
Kate walked deliberately across the room and boxed his ears.