The artist's blue eyes looked at him fixedly.
"I am addressing the same Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw?" he inquired in a voice compounded of several emotions.
"The same, my dear fellow—essentially the same. I look better—younger—fitter, I dare say, eh?"
"Yes," said Lucas, still eyeing him curiously, "you do."
"But you see I am still Frank's father."
He laughed genially, and this argument at last seemed to convince the young man that he was not the victim of a strange delusion.
"I am sorry for being a little hasty—" he began, with a candid smile.
"Not at all," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw good-humoredly. "Don't mention it. There was a lady in the case; that's excuse enough for any two men quarreling. By the way, my daughter is not with me, but she would no doubt wish to have her kind regards—that is to say—well, well, let me see the pictures."
In the course of this speech the affable gentleman had been reminded by the senior partner that one must be careful not to commit oneself rashly. It was odd how often he required these warnings nowadays—and how frequently they came just half a sentence too late.