"The man is waiting, Cuthbert. Has thee the money for him?"
Mr. Kaye fumbled in one pocket, tried another, frowned, and appeared distressed.
"Never mind, dear. Hallam can attend to it."
But the crippled lad had already swung himself over the steps upon his crutches, and the artist remarked, with a fresh annoyance:—
"He must put it in the bill, Salome. Why always bother with such trifles? If one could only get away from the thought and sound of money. Its sordidness is the torment of one's life."
Mrs. Kaye sighed, as she paid the hackman from her own purse, then followed her husband into the house.
His face had already lost all its expression of annoyance, and now beamed with satisfaction as he regarded Amy's efforts to celebrate the home-coming.
"Good child. Good little girl. Truly, very beautiful. Why, my darling, you'll be an artist yourself some day, I believe."
"The saints forbid!" murmured a voice from the further side the room, where Cleena had appeared, bearing a tray of dishes.