“Jack is a fool,” mused Miss Bolton complacently, tapping the pasteboard in a meditative fashion. “He will hate it all three months hence, and then they will quarrel horribly. A photographer indeed! What possessed him, I wonder?”
When Miss Bolton flippantly observed that she intended having her photograph taken at Thompkins and Co.’s, she did not mean it seriously; for she had not considered the matter, and only spoke upon impulse. Some months later, however, the idea returning to her mind, she determined, after thinking it over for a little while, to act upon it, and judge for herself how Jack adapted himself to his changed circumstances.
It was characteristic of her that she should don her richest attire for the occasion, and drive there in style instead of going in the quietest and most unobtrusive manner; and it was also characteristic that on arriving and entering the shop she should haughtily demand to see Mr St. John, entirely ignoring Jill, who, on her entry, had risen from her seat at the desk, and now in her usual philosophic manner walked quietly out of the shop to call her husband St. John was in the studio endeavouring to snap an infant in its vest, and only succeeding in making it howl. He was looking worried and annoyed, and welcomed Jill’s advent with relief.
“You are better at this kind of thing than I am,” he said in an aside to her; “just see if you can pacify the little beast.”
“All right,” answered Jill shortly. “You can go and do the agreeable to Evie Bolton; she’s in the shop waiting to see you.”
St. John whistled, and the infant stopped yelling to listen; it was noted for its love of music.
“How jolly nice of her,” he cried. “Perhaps she’ll stay and have tea with us.”
“Perhaps she won’t,” Jill answered rather bitterly; but St. John was not paying any attention; he was busy adjusting the collar of his coat, and failed to detect the chagrin in his wife’s tone and manner. Jill turned her back on him quickly to hide her annoyance, and walked over to make friends with the baby, while St. John, unconscious that anything was amiss, strode through the studio into the shop where Evie Bolton awaited him. She turned at his entry and advanced to greet him, recognising with a little pang of envy as she did so, what a fine, manly, handsome fellow this cousin of hers was. St. John, too, realised for the first time how very pretty and stylish Evie was. When he had lived with stylish women he had not noticed these things, now that his lot was cast among the working-classes, he perceived and appreciated the difference. His glance rested on Miss Bolton’s well groomed prettiness with a kind of tired relief, and the sordidness of his own surroundings became more apparent.
“It is good of you to look us up,” he cried. “I half feared that I was going to get the cold shoulder altogether.”
He had taken the girl’s outstretched hand in both of his, and now looked into her eyes with a smile of pleased gratitude. Evie smiled back.