“It has received it,” said Jim. “I have been kicking myself for being such a hot-headed fool ever since it happened.”
“One is almost afraid,” said Cheriton, ruefully, “that your indiscretion is irreparable. Really, Lascelles, making due allowance for the fact that your father was one of the most rash and hasty men I ever encountered, and allowing further for the fact that my old friend has a deplorable absence of, shall we say, amenity, your behavior amounted neither more nor less than to suicide.”
“I don’t regret what I did,” said Jim, “as far as that old Gorgon of a woman is concerned. I am afraid I should behave in just the same way again if I were placed in a similar position. But I know it was very unwise. As for the portrait, I intend, by hook or by crook, to finish it.”
“Well, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, giving the young fellow a kindly touch on the arm in parting, “do what you can; and when the work is complete you must let me see it.”
It was a new Jim Lascelles who returned to Balham by the twelve-thirty from Victoria and took luncheon with his mother. He called at the greengrocer’s just as you get out of the station, and arrived at the Acacias with a number of paper bags tucked under each arm. He hummed the favorite air in the very latest musical comedy, while he proceeded to make a salad whose mysteries he had acquired in Paris. He had been initiated into them by Monsieur Bonnat, the famous chef of the Hotel Brinvilliers. And it so happened that Jim’s mother, who spoiled him completely, had purchased a lobster, which she really couldn’t afford, such was the current price of that delicacy and the present state of her finances, to cheer Jim up a bit.
“My dear,” said Jim, “let us have the last bottle of the Johannisberg.”
Miranda, the demure little maid-of-all-work, was ordered rather magnificently to procure the same.
“Pity ’tis, ’tis the last,” said Jim, who proceeded to toast his mother. “May those precious publishers,” said he, “learn truly to appreciate a very remarkable literary genius, my dear.”
“I am afraid they do, dear boy,” said she. “That is the trouble.”
“It is a rattling good story, anyhow,” said Jim, stoutly.