‘Exactly so,’ said Mr. Netley, looking cheered at this admission. ‘And then there are literary people too, you know, and scientific—oh, many scientific people, whom I don’t know much about. And there are some artists, too. There’s a School of Art—there are a great many pupils at the School of Art, and an exhibition every year of their paintings.’
‘Only their paintings?’ inquired Jerome, politely.
‘Oh, and other people’s paintings, of course. Yes; and a Black and White Exhibition. Do you care for black and white pictures? Have you been much thrown amongst black and white artists—I mean artists who do black and white pictures?’
‘Not more than amongst artists who do red, and green, and blue, and other coloured pictures in general,’ replied Jerome, beginning to feel a little amused, and to realise that probably Mr. Netley was one of those persons who have one manner and set of expressions for business hours, and quite another for those of leisure.
So it proved. When they went into the library, and Mr. Netley began to talk on business, it must have been a very clever man indeed who could have caught him tripping, or who could have discovered any want of perspicacity or acumen in his utterances.
They sat together in the study, with cigars and coffee-cups before them, and Mr. Netley had pulled out some papers, and begun to turn them over, when Jerome, whose impatience had been none the less keen in that he had so strenuously concealed it, said:
‘Before you go into details, I wish you could give me one piece of information. Will there be anything left? Will there be enough just to give my sister a home? That is what I am most anxious to know.’
‘There will be Monk’s Gate, and I think from a hundred to a hundred and twenty pounds’ income. Curate’s pay, Mr. Wellfield, and a curate might make it do.’
‘You are thinking I am not one. That’s true. But this is a great relief. And Monk’s Gate—what is Monk’s Gate?’
‘Your father only sold the Abbey, not Monk’s Gate.’