“What! They were school-fellows?”
“Brothers!” said Matt, and felt the instant relief of criminal confession.
Madame uttered a little cry of delighted astonishment, and took Matt’s hands in hers.
“My dear sir, my dear sir!” she cried, shaking them, “I knew you were clever. Come inside—come inside. Why didn’t you say who you were last time? You are the boy who wrote to Matthew from Nova Scotia years ago! What a pity he is out! He will be so charmed.”
And, still holding his hands, she led him up a little flight of stairs into a daintily furnished sitting-room, resplendent with pictures, and sat him down in a soft arm-chair, and hung admiringly over him, and plied him with inquiries as to his past and his projects and things Nova Scotian (without always waiting for an answer, or ever getting more than a brief generality), and rang for claret and cake, which were brought in by a pretty girl in a piquant white cap, but which Matt refused for fear of seeming to be in want of refreshment.
“I have a son who is also an artist—oh, so clever, the dear boy!” she told him. “You must know him—you will love each other. He is at work now in his studio; but he must not be interrupted till the light fails.”
Matt’s eyes kindled. “I shall like to know him,” he cried, fervently.
“Yes, dear Herbert! Oh, you’ve no idea how sweet and good and clever he is! He’s twenty-three, yet as obedient as a child. We’re so proud of him—his father and I. He quite consoles us for the failure of the English to appreciate Matthew’s work.”
“Oh, where can I see uncle’s work?” asked Matt, eagerly.
Madame shook her head sadly. “Oh, he parted with all his pictures ever so many years ago,” she said.