It came as a surprise that he should use the words “it does n't pay,” for he had a kind of partially enamelled look, like that modern jewellery which really seems unconscious of its market value.
“You've given up the Bar? Don't you get awfully bored having nothing to do?” pursued the stained-glass man, stopping before an ancient sundial.
Shelton felt a delicacy, as a man naturally would, in explaining that being in love was in itself enough to do. To do nothing is unworthy of a man! But he had never felt as yet the want of any occupation. His silence in no way disconcerted his acquaintance.
“That's a nice old article of virtue,” he said, pointing with his chin; and, walking round the sundial, he made its acquaintance from the other side. Its grey profile cast a thin and shortening shadow on the turf; tongues of moss were licking at its sides; the daisies clustered thick around its base; it had acquired a look of growing from the soil. “I should like to get hold of that,” the stained-glass man remarked; “I don't know when I 've seen a better specimen,” and he walked round it once again.
His eyebrows were still ironically arched, but below them his eyes were almost calculating, and below them, again, his mouth had opened just a little. A person with a keener eye would have said his face looked greedy, and even Shelton was surprised, as though he had read in the Spectator a confession of commercialism.
“You could n't uproot a thing like that,” he said; “it would lose all its charm.”
His companion turned impatiently, and his countenance looked wonderfully genuine.
“Couldn't I?” he said. “By Jove! I thought so. 1690! The best period.” He ran his forger round the sundial's edge. “Splendid line-clean as the day they made it. You don't seem to care much about that sort of thing”; and once again, as though accustomed to the indifference of Vandals, his face regained its mask.
They strolled on towards the kitchen gardens, Shelton still busy searching every patch of shade. He wanted to say “Can't stop,” and hurry off; but there was about the stained-glass man a something that, while stinging Shelton's feelings, made the showing of them quite impossible. “Feelings!” that person seemed to say; “all very well, but you want more than that. Why not take up wood-carving? . . . Feelings! I was born in England, and have been at Cambridge.”
“Are you staying long?” he asked Shelton. “I go on to Halidome's to-morrow; suppose I sha'n'. see you there? Good, chap, old Halidome! Collection of etchings very fine!”