"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't savvy at first. You're to tell me what to advise and I'm to advise it? Well, tell me what to say."
"Don't be stupid, dear—just for a moment, please. You're bound to agree with me when you see his work. And you might offer to lend him the money—my money, though he's not to know that. Or perhaps you ought to buy his pictures. I'm sure you'll want some of those things he has. Of course that's the better way. It will let him feel independent. There, it's fixed. It was simple, after all." She flashed him a look of gratitude. "You're a help after all, dear, when you choose to be."
"But—one moment, my babe! Perhaps after listening to my advice so meekly you'll let the poor chap say a word for himself. Perhaps he'd rather stay right here in God's own country if he eats and sleeps well now."
"Please, please, let's not be so—so foody! Of course he wants to go!"
"But what in Heaven's name would you ever have done without my help, poor mindless child that you are?"
But she was oblivious to this subtlety.
"Yes, dear, you're always a comfort. We'll ride over this afternoon and tell him he's to go. It will be a fine thing to do—he's so promising."
"Look here, Nell"—he glanced at her shrewdly—"is this to be his picnic or yours?"
She burned with a little inner rage to feel her cheeks redden, but the black fringe of her eyes did not fall before him.
"We'll ride over after luncheon," she repeated, "and I do wish, Clarence, that you'd shave and wear a collar or a stock, and throw that unspeakable coat away, and have your boots cleaned, and send for some cigars."