“I am glad you think so, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. “I think so myself.”
Thereupon the green linen frock and the red umbrella and the French novel, together with an extremely choice suit of tweeds and a superb Panama hat, went along by the lake to take a closer view of that formidable chasm, the Devil’s Footstool. At the same time George Betterton handed Miss Goose aboard the punt.
Jim Lascelles took up the tools of his trade.
“Get into the water, you Ragamuffin,” said he. “I’ll paint you with pink eyes and green hair. And your frock shall not have a single rent in it. It shall be the last cry of the fashion.”
Things went excellently well for a time. It was a glorious August day. There was hardly a cloud about Gwydr; the sky was of a pure Italian hue; there was scarcely a puff of wind to ruffle Lake Dwygy. For a bright and diligent hour Jim Lascelles was on the best of terms with his canvas.
“Keep that side, you Ragamuffin,” said he, “and give the light of the morning a chance. Keep that cucumber basket out of the eye of the sun. And don’t leave the water on any pretext whatever. I am not in the least interested in toads, newts, lizards, speckled trout, ferns, grass, or in your general conversation. Soak and tear and soil your garments to your heart’s content, but you take those Foot Pieces out of the water on pain of appearing at Burlington House as an American heiress.”
“But, Jim——”
“Silence, you Ragamuffin.”
“But, Jim, there is dearest Aunt Caroline.”
It was perfectly true. The mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle was standing five yards from the canvas. She was in the full panoply of war. Ponto, her aide-de-camp, and Miss Burden, her gentlewoman, were by her side. Her ebony stick supported her venerable frame; her head-dress was surmounted by a hat that had been fashionable in 1880. An eyeglass was in her grim old eye; and her gentlewoman held an umbrella over her to protect her aged form from the fierce rays which, according to Borrow, are sometimes reflected from the slopes of the Welsh mountains.