Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said. “You’d rub it off.”
“Like enough,” returned the old man, placidly. “I gen’ally do get in a muss when there’s fresh paint around. But I don’t mind my clothes. They’re ust to it—same as yourn.”
The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn’t risk it,” he said. “Come on.”
They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on its edge.
II
The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right along in,” he said. “I’ll be there ’s soon as I’ve got an armful of wood.”
The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a sudden sense of crude comfort.
The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.
She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious gaze.