“Oh, no! I didn’t say that. And I suppose I shouldn’t say anything that looks like cynicism to you, child. Still, I must say there’s a good deal of personal interest in the affection a rich man gets. I used to hear that said when I was a boy, and there’s a good deal about it in old-fashioned books, but I didn’t believe it. It’s money that makes the world go, Katharine, my dear. It’s love for one year, perhaps, but it’s money all the other sixty-nine out of the seventy. I’ve seen a deal of money earned and squandered, and stolen and wasted in my time, and there’s no denying it—money’s the main object. It keeps the world going, and when it gets stuck in one place, as it has in my hands, there’s an attempt—a natural attempt, I suppose—to distribute it again. And if it doesn’t get distributed, there’s a howl of pain from all the relations. It’s natural—it’s natural—but it doesn’t make dying easier.”
“Don’t talk about dying, uncle dear—there’s no reason for—”
The door opened, and Leek, the butler, appeared.
“Mr. Crowdie asks if you’ll see him, sir,” he said. “He says he wrote that he was coming this morning, sir.”
“Yes—yes. I know. Show him in, Leek.” The butler disappeared. “I’m sorry we don’t like him,” added the old gentleman, with a rather weary smile. “But I want to see your picture. You said it was good?”
“Very.”
There was the short silence of expectancy which precedes the entry of a visitor, and then the door opened again and Crowdie came in. He was of average height, but ill made, slightly in-kneed and weak-shouldered, neither thin nor stout; pale, with a pear-shaped face and bright red lips, beautiful brown eyes and silky brown hair which was a little too long. His hands and feet were small—the hands being very white, with pointed fingers, and they looked soft. He dressed well.
“It’s so kind of you to let me come, sir,” he said, as he shook hands. “I hope you’re really better. Why, Miss Lauderdale, I didn’t expect to see you! How do you do?”
“Thanks—how do you do? I’m staying here, you know.”
Old Lauderdale pointed to a seat. He had shaken hands with the painter, but had not spoken.