“Yes, considerably. I must work hard, and make it up again.”
“I’m awfully sorry. But there, cheer up, old boy; there is no good in worrying about it, I suppose.”
“No,” said Arthur, quietly. “And where are you going, Lionel?”
“To join my regiment at Bombay; I am to be gazetted next week. I’m not going in bad disgrace, Arthur—don’t think that; but my brother, the Earl, twitted me with my folly and my expenditure, you know, and, no doubt, he was right. I have been a fool. A few years in the army will do a fellow good. There is no chance of war; that’s unfortunate.”
They chatted and smoked until Arthur’s man came and carried the artist’s picture and materials away, and then they strolled together towards a farm where Lionel had put up his horse, and where Arthur had arranged to sleep.
In the farmer’s clean-sanded parlour, Lionel told Arthur the story of his losses, not forgetting the incident of his interview with Paul Somerton. This, it seemed, had annoyed Lionel as much as anything in the whole of the unfortunate affair. He was satisfied that Miss Somerton had set her brother to watch him.
“I could never have supposed that a girl could have behaved so absurdly. You may rely upon it, Arthur, that pretty bailiff’s daughter had set her mind on marrying me, and she was anxious that I should not get through my patrimony without her assistance, I suppose. Imagine the absurdity of the thing! The girl fancies I am in love with her.”
“You have paid her great attention,” said Arthur.
“Who doesn’t pay a pretty girl great attention, whoever she may be?” said Lionel.
“You were in raptures with her picture—not out of compliment to the artist, but to the pretty face—the aristocratic head,” said Arthur, significantly.