“Well, I know that, old lady. Isn’t Kilby big enough to hold the lot? Let’s have the place made a bit cheerful; I like to hear a good hearty shout of laughter now and then, and you’ve taken to do nothing else lately but grumble softly and scold.”
“It’s a wicked story, Joseph, and you know it,” cried Mrs Portlock, as the Churchwarden turned away from her and winked at the cat; “and as for noise, I’m sure you make enough in the house without wanting more.”
“Never mind, let’s have more; and Cyril Mallow can shoot down the rabbits, for they’re rather getting ahead.”
As he spoke he had been filling his pipe, and he now took out a letter, read it, and slowly folded it up for a pipe-light, saying to himself—
“He’s no business to want me to lend him a hundred pound after what I so lately did for them as a start.”
James Magnus had been invited to take Julia’s portrait, the Rector, artfully prompted thereto by Cynthia, accompanying the commission by a very warm invitation to stay at the rectory as much as he could while the portrait was in progress, as he heard that Mr Magnus was coming down to Gatley.
Artingale dropped in at his friends studio on the very day that he received the Rector’s letter—of course by accident, based upon a hint from Cynthia; and found Magnus sitting thoughtfully by his easel, pretending to paint, but doing nothing.
“Why, Mag, you look well enough and strong enough now to thrash Hercules himself, in the person of our gipsy friend.”
“Yes, I feel myself again,” was the reply. “By the way, Harry, I’ve had an invitation to Lawford.”
“Indeed! I’m very glad. I go down to-morrow.”