"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him."
Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see your paintings?"
"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, that I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away less happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures twice."
"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," answered my wife.
Percivale bowed—one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly liked.
"Any friend of yours—that is guarantee sufficient," he answered.
There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, that you had not a doubt of its being genuine.
"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you."
"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me.
"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure."