All that Cheriton condescended to know on this important and wide-reaching subject was that Jim Lascelles “hadn’t a bob in the world,” and that he was good to his mother. He was not even aware that the mother of Jim, by some obscure mode of reasoning peculiar to her kind, felt that Jim was bound to turn out a great genius. Nor was he aware that on that naïf pretext she had pinched and scraped in the most heroic manner to spare enough from her modest pittance to give Jim three years’ training in Paris in the studio of the world-renowned Monsieur Gillet. Indeed, there is no reason to believe that Lord Cheriton had any special faith in Jim or in his genius. He merely believed that he could intrust a little commission with perfect safety, and with profit to both parties, to a modest, sound-hearted, pleasantly mediocre young fellow.
Now, at the hour Jim Lascelles made his first appearance in Hill Street, that is just about what he was. Sometimes, it is true, he would have occasional dreams of coming greatness. But he never mentioned them to anybody, because, in his own mind, he was convinced that they were due to having supped later than usual. He troubled very little about the future. He worked on steadily, striving to pay his way; and if he never expected to see his “stuff” on the line in the long room at Burlington House, he did hope some time to sell it a little more easily, and to get better prices for it from the dealers.
If he could go once in three years to Kennington Oval to see Surrey play the Australians, or if he could afford a couple of tickets occasionally for the Chelsea Arts Club Fancy Ball at Covent Garden, or his funds were sufficient for him to take his mother to the dress-circle of a suburban theater to see a play that ended pleasantly, and he was always able to buy as much tobacco as he wanted, he didn’t mind very much that he worked very hard to earn very little. He argued quite correctly that many chaps were worse off than Jim Lascelles. He had splendid health, and he had a splendid mother.
No sooner had John received Jim Lascelles on this memorable forenoon, and the mighty canvas that accompanied him, which was in the care of two stalwart sons of labor, than the fun really began. In the first place, it was only with infinite contrivance that it was got through the blue drawing-room door, which, fortunately for Jim—and dare we say for Cheriton?—was part and parcel of a spacious and lofty Georgian interior. All the same, some sacrifice of white paint was involved in the process, which was deemed a sacrilege by at least one witness to it.
However, our old friend John did not overawe Jim Lascelles as much as he had a right to expect to, because Jim had been born and brought up at the Red House at Widdiford, and he went to quite a good school before the crash came.
“A shocking bad light,” said Jim, surveying the aristocratic gloom of the blue drawing-room as though it belonged to him. “Better stick it there.”
With considerable hauteur, John superintended the rearing of the unwieldy canvas in the place Jim Lascelles had indicated. It involved the moving of the sofa six yards to the left. To do this, in the opinion of John, almost required a special Act of Parliament. It was certainly necessary to get the authority of Mr. Marchbanks before it could be moved an inch. Jim, however, being a young fellow who liked his own way, and who generally managed to get it, cheerfully removed the sofa himself while John was seeking the permission of his chief. When that astonished functionary returned, the two stalwart sons of labor were performing their final duties. He had, therefore, to be content with a stern admonition as to where they put their feet while they fixed up the canvas.
Jim Lascelles was not given to unbridled enthusiasms, but the discovery of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, seemed greatly to disturb him.
“Ye gods!” said Jim, “it is a crime to keep the heritage of the nation in a light like this.” He turned to John, who held his chin in the air, the incarnation of outraged dignity. “I say,” said he, “can’t you draw those blinds up higher?”
“No, sir,” said John, superciliously, “not without her ladyship’s permission.”