“Ah!” murmured Cheriton, with his eyeglass fixed upon Gwydr.
“I didn’t realize the danger.”
“Ah, you should,” said Cheriton, looking at Gwydr most sagaciously. “One is ready to believe that the art of our young friend was helped amazingly; but then, unfortunately, l’art c’est l’homme.”
“I have been so wicked,” said Jim’s mother.
“Imprudent, shall we say?” said Cheriton, with a paternal glance at the picture of attractive distress that was seated beside him. “You toyed with a barrel of gunpowder and a lighted torch, and you found them combustible.”
“They are hopelessly in love,” said Jim’s mother, miserably.
“The dooce! Both of ’em?”
“She is quite as bad as he. Girls are such stupid creatures.”
“I have always found them so,” said Cheriton.
“The wretched creature ought to have seen from the first that a struggling artist who lives with his old mother at Balham cannot possibly marry her.”