“All right. I’ll just go to the club to see if there are any letters. There’s another of your privileges, confound you! I can’t have any letters come to my own place.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Do you think I’d have the governor nosing my correspondence? He’d be always asking questions. It’s a jolly little club—I’ll put you up for it if you like. Take another cigarette; take half a dozen; put ’em in your pocket.”
As they were going down-stairs, Matt said he would like to say good-bye to Madame, so they passed into the sitting-room.
“Au revoir, my dear nephew, au revoir!” said Madame, shaking both his hands. “I said you and Herbert would love each other. You will find your sixpence awaiting you on the desk.”
CHAPTER IV
THE PICTURE-MAKERS
“Funny I’ve never been to see your place. I must look you up one day.” Thus Herbert at uncertain intervals, but he never carried out his threat. His life was too full, and he had been accustomed from childhood to have the mountain come to Mohammed. And so, gradually, Matt, who had at first lived half apprehensive of an exposure, half wishful that Herbert should become rudely aware of his real position, surrendered himself to the magnetism of his cousin’s manner, and weakly tried to live up to that young gentleman’s misconception of him whenever they were together; even submitting to a morning suit and an evening dress from Herbert’s tailor for an undefined sum at an unmentioned date. For if the disadvantages of Herbert’s society were many, if he had to starve for days to return Herbert’s club hospitality at a restaurant, still he was satisfied the game was worth the candle. From Herbert he felt himself acquiring polish and refinement and impeccable English and social lore; Herbert was an intellectual stimulus, with thoughts to give away and the newest poets to lend; Herbert was bright and gay, charming away the vapors of youthful despondency. But, above all, Herbert sometimes allowed him to work in his studio, amid the sensuous beauty of draping and decoration and statuary that lapped his artistic nature like a soft summer sea—a privilege inestimable, but, in view of the mere model, worth at least all the extra money this friendship cost him. It befell thus:
On Matt’s second visit Herbert said, good-naturedly:
“I’ve just laid my palette. You sit down. Let’s see what you can do.”
“May I?” cried Matt, eagerly. There was a costume-model on the throne—a dark-eyed beauty in Oriental drapery.