“Peyton-Russell—he’s at the Peyton-Russell’s?”
“You know them?”
“Yes, that is, I know Mrs. Peyton-Russell a bit; she’s a friend of my aunt’s, and we’re going there for Christmas—going tomorrow.”
“Really; that’s splendid, for you can save me writing a note. I hate writing letters. You see Pendragon has been trying to interest this Peyton-Russell in my work. He’s one of these men who’s spent two-thirds of a lifetime making money, and now he doesn’t know exactly what to do with it. He’s only been married about two years. I know Pendragon hadn’t met his wife, but Mr. Peyton-Russell depends on Pendragon to tell him when things are good, and when Professor Pendragon bought one of my pictures Mr. Peyton-Russell thought he ought to buy one, too. If you’d just tell Professor Pendragon that I don’t care what he pays for the picture he has—I let him borrow one to see whether he grew tired of it after it was hung—you’ll save me a lot of trouble.”
“Of course; did you say Professor Pendragon hasn’t met Mrs. Peyton-Russell?”
“He hadn’t; but I suppose he has now that he’s a guest in her house. John Peyton-Russell used to try to get him out to dinner in town, but Pen wouldn’t go; he hates society. But he was ill, you know, and Peyton-Russell was so anxious to do something for him, and promised that it would be quiet—no one out there, and the doctor seemed to think it might be good—he took the nurse along, of course, so Pen went.”
“Did he say how he was getting on, in his last letter?”
“Yes; just the same, no better and no worse, but didn’t say anything about coming back at once. You’re more interested than Dot.”
“No; only it seems strange, a coincidence, his being at the same house we’re going to.”
“While you’re delivering messages for Nels, deliver one for me too, Ruth,” said Dorothy. “Tell him I’m waiting very patiently to make that portrait and that when it’s finished if he wants to sell it to his rich collectors he can. What is he, Nels, a sort of dealer?”