To say that Mr Markham was astonished would be to express his sensations very inadequately he was astounded—almost incredulous. He looked at St. John’s smiling face, and then at Jill’s grave, matter-of-fact one, and ejaculated “By George!” in a tone that made St. John laugh more than ever.
“It’s a fact,” observed the latter. “Put the card in your pocket and advertise the firm a bit at the club and elsewhere. Besides you’ll know my address then, though, of course, it is quite permissible for you to forget that if you want to.”
Mr Markham took up the card in silence, read it, placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and sitting back in his chair fell to laughing immoderately as though it were a huge joke. He had grasped the situation immediately when he had quite taken in the news. He had wondered that Jack and his wife should be having their wedding breakfast at Frascatti’s, and alone; but now he understood. He knew that St. John, Senior, was bent on marrying his son to Miss Bolton, and he also knew that St. John possessed no private means. He had evidently run contrary to the paternal wishes and this was the outcome. What a fool he was to be sure! To chuck up quarter of a million and pretty Evie Bolton for—
“You must really excuse me, Mrs St. John,” he exclaimed meeting Jill’s surprised, and slightly disapproving glance with easy frankness, “but it’s just immense to hear Jack talk about work; I don’t suppose he has done a hand’s turn in his life.”
Jill lifted her eyes to her husband’s with unconcealed pride in her look.
“It doesn’t follow that he won’t be able to do it,” she answered confidently. “You none of you seem to have understood him. He is full of pluck and perseverance, only he has always been discouraged.”
“We understood the old Jack well enough,” Markham responded. “But there comes a crisis in some men’s lives when their whole nature undergoes a complete change. It doesn’t always last; they often go back to the original state which means disappointment, and sometimes disillusionment too. I don’t mean that St. John is likely to go back, I was merely—”
“Preparing me,” suggested Jill.
“No; wandering off into personal experience—a mistake at any time, unpardonable under existing circumstances. I won’t forget to advertise the show, old man,” he continued turning to St. John, “and, if I may, will book to-day fortnight for a sitting. I rather enjoy having my portrait taken, and don’t mind promising to become a regular customer. I think I can bring some others as well.”
“Thanks awfully,” answered St. John. “It will be good for me if I can introduce some fresh customers. I have posted the old man a card. Wouldn’t it be a huge joke if I had the honour of photographing my own father?”