“But he’s jolly odd, you know, Perry,” said the other. “He’s lived in Cairo for twenty or thirty years, perhaps more, and he’s always going to paint a picture of the Sphinx. He goes there, every day all these twenty years, and he’s never painted a line yet.”
“Perhaps he can’t paint, Mr. Wyr,” suggested the boy.
“Oh, yes, he can. He’s one of the very best we’ve got. Some of his work on the old rock-mosques can’t be equalled by anybody. But, you know, he can’t be bribed into doing a picture of the Sphinx or the pyramids. He’s been offered some jolly big sums, quite a pot of money, you know, for an artist chap. But he always makes the same reply—”
“‘I am waiting,’” queried the boy, “is that it?”
“That’s it. But what it is that he is waiting for, no one knows, unless it’s inspiration. And I should jolly well think he ought to know, after twenty or thirty years, whether he can get an inspiration or not.”
“He seemed mighty interesting,” rejoined Perry. “He told me he knew Ancient Egyptian.”
“He does,” Wyr responded. “Oh, yes, there aren’t many people around Cairo who know more about Egypt than Quinward. But you must have touched him in a tender spot, Perry, for generally, he’s awfully like a bear.”
“P’raps it was because I didn’t bother him an awful lot,” said Perry. “Anyhow, he half suggested that I should go to see him this evening.”
“Well, why not?” said the professor. “If this artist friend of yours is as well-informed as Mr. Wyr seems to think, get him talking about Egypt and then you can tell us all about it.”
“Won’t you come along, Uncle George?” suggested Perry.