“No, even taking the portrait into account, Matt’s the Painter,” said Herbert, placing his hand lovingly on the shoulder of his friend, who thrilled with a sense of his cousin’s large-heartedness. “Call me the Playwright.”
“You are both Painters,” Miss Regan persisted. “But the problem is solved—one is Mr. Herbert and the other Mr. Matthew.” She took Eleanor’s arm and led the way to the house.
“Since when are you a playwright, Mr. Herbert?” asked Matthew, as they fell a little into the rear.
“None of your sarcasm, you beggar. I’ve always been a playwright. Don’t you remember my doing a burlesque for the Academy students? I’m writing a comedy in the evenings—the lessee of the Folly is a friend of mine—I must make some money now—there’s that hundred pounds I owe you—and I know I’m not going to make it by painting.”
“But surely you will let me know if you want anything,” said Matthew, with genuine concern, for there seemed something immoral in the idea of Herbert feeling the pinch of need, to say nothing of his shock at finding that his cousin had run through all that money. Herbert had, indeed, several times hinted at his impecuniosity, but Matthew had never taken him seriously.
Herbert shook his head. “I know you’re a brick, old chap, but a hundred pounds is as much as I care to owe any one man.”
“But you don’t consider me any one man.”
“Ah! it’s awfully good of you to remember that I did as much for you—comparatively speaking—in your tenpenny times, but still it isn’t quite agreeable to find one’s bread on the waters after many days. I never did like soaked bread, even in milk. The most I could do would be to let you settle up every week with Primitiva’s father. But it’s really halves, mind you, and when my comedy is produced, you’ll have to reckon with me. They like what I’ve written—the women—they think it’ll make a hit—I read them the night’s work after lunch the next day—of course, I always lunch with them after the morning’s sitting. Ah, here we are!”
They had emerged from the sheltered quarry and met the smack of the salt wind from the moaning sea-front. A lawn ran out to meet the pebbly beach, from which it was separated by a low stone wall; the ancient slate-roofed house stood out radiantly cheerful against the dusky background of the night and the cliffs. Primitiva was at the door looking out anxiously, and a man-servant shared her anxiety, or at least her vigil.
“How delightful!” exclaimed Matthew.