Mr. Parslewe motioned me to the breakfast table with a bow and a wave of his delicately fingered hand, and favoured his ward and myself with one of his sweetest smiles.
“Well, I don’t know, my dear,” he retorted. “He might have been a burglar!—you never can tell.”
He laughed, with full enjoyment, at his own joke, and bent towards me as he handed me a plate.
“I was sorry I woke you!” he said, still smiling. “I was enjoying looking at you. I thought I’d never seen such a refreshingly innocent young mortal in my life! In fact, I was just thinking of fetching Madrasia to look at you when you woke.”
He laughed more than ever at this, and I glanced from him to his ward.
“Don’t mind him!” she said. “That’s his way. He possesses a curious form of humour—a very twisted form sometimes. You’re a queer man, Jimmie, aren’t you? And I gave you such a splendid character last night!—said that you’d have been furious if I hadn’t insisted on bringing Mr. Craye in, and lots more—didn’t I, Mr. Craye?”
“Well, I’d certainly rather see him sitting there alive, eating his bacon, than dig him out of the snow, dead,” remarked Mr. Parslewe, good-humouredly. “But Craye, now—do you happen to be related to Craye, the landscape painter?”
“I am Craye, the landscape painter, Mr. Parslewe,” I replied. “That’s why I’m in this neighbourhood. I was looking out all yesterday for a likely subject.”
His face lighted up with genuine pleasure, and he stretched out his hand across the table and shook mine heartily.
“Man!” he exclaimed, “I’m delighted to have you in my house! You’re a clever young fellow; I’ve admired your work ever since I was first privileged to see it. And bought it, too; there’s two water-colours of yours behind you there, and——”