“My dear young lady!”
“Lord Cheriton is so good to everybody,” said a pleasant and manly voice. “But, unfortunately, he is ruining my picture.”
Cheriton turned to confront Jim Lascelles.
“Why, Lascelles, my dear fellow,” said he, “what right have you here? Your place is in Normandy with your mother.”
“She is here,” said Jim. “We came on Wednesday.”
“Either this is a very singular coincidence,” said Cheriton, “or you are making uncommonly rapid strides in your art.”
“Coincidence it is not,” said Jim. “We spent three delightful weeks in Normandy, and then the scenery began to get flat and the people primitive and angular. And as Borrow says that there are mountains in Wales, and that its inhabitants are noted for their picturesqueness, we really felt that a week here would not be wasted.”
“Lascelles,” said his patron, gravely, “I shall not live to see it, but it is increasingly clear to my mind that one day you will be president of the Royal Academy.”
“My mother appears to think so,” said Jim, modestly.
That lady was to be seen coming round the lake towards the easel. She picked her way from stone to stone in the daintiest manner, for quagmires abounded. Jim felt quite proud of her, she looked so admirable in her cool, green frock. She carried a French novel and a red umbrella. No sooner did Muffin observe her than she gave a crow of pleasure and waded forth to meet her.