“Well, she’ll have him,” said Everitt, grimly. “Why hurl threats at me? I am not likely to forget. But you are, apparently, as much interested as she is. May I ask why?”
“Because,” she said, “she is my dearest friend, and I don’t like my friends to be disappointed. And she is so enthusiastic and eager about her art! I do wish I could bring you two together. Won’t you come and dine? George, persuade him.”
“When I come back from Pont-aven,” said Everitt, escaping with a laugh.
He was an early worker, and it was his custom to be in his studio, painting, a good hour before Jack Hibbert began his studies. He made an effective picture himself as he stood at his easel—a handsome man, rather above the usual height, dark and bright-eyed, with a clear olive skin, and well-cut features. The lofty studio, with its hangings of faded harmonious colours, its pleasant irregularities, and its pictures standing about, formed an excellent setting. A fire burnt on the hearth, and the parrot was engaged in making pertinent inquiries of his master, which Everitt answered absently, for he was at work upon a subject which interested him. At last he looked at his watch with an exclamation of annoyance.
“Where’s that fellow? He should have been here half an hour ago.” He pulled a bell impatiently, and it was answered by the porter. “Has Giuseppe come?”
“No, sir.”
“Hurry him up when he makes his appearance—that’s all. Or—stop! Is Greggs engaged this week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Foster—where’s Foster?”
“Mr Sydney has him.”