“‘Barnabas,’ she cried—ceremony and with it the Monsieur has lapsed into disuse in the open air—‘do look at ze lovely little figure ’e ’as made. ‘Is name is Andrew McAndrew.’ And she rolled her r’s with gusto. Well, it is pleasant to think that Pippa should be the one to find your first candidate, and it is curious to think it is one who, if I am not much mistaken, will one day be a great sculptor. The little figure of a young girl, made from the clay of the river, was to my mind simply a marvel. I learnt his story. I’ll not give it in the broad Scotch in which he told it, for it would take you your whole time to make it out. He lived in London—Bayswater way—with a widowed mother, whom he supports by typing in a stuffy little office which he loathes, though he has not been without hope that ‘Aiblins the gud Lorrd would find a way out for him one o’ these days.’ Whenever he has any spare time he models in clay, which mercifully is an inexpensive material. He has at the moment a week’s holiday, during which he is tramping the country, sleeping under a hedge or at the foot of a hayrick, eating bread and cheese like any tramp, and enjoying himself finely—as we are. Pippa, it appears, watched him at work, herself hidden, like the fairy she is, in a mass of meadow-sweet. Suddenly she appeared from among it, and they entered into a conversation which must have been curious, conducted in a broad Scotch on his side, and in broken English on hers—though her English is progressing rapidly. Anyhow, she made him understand she was out with a party of artists. He was all agog to meet us, and she brought him along. He will join us for the next three days, instead of making his way again in the direction of London as he had intended, and we’ve arranged between us to send him back by train. As soon as I’m at my studio again he will look me up, and I’ll bring him along to see you. I’ve given him no inkling of the Wonderful Chance before him. That is for you to do. But he’s one of the right ones for it and no mistake. You won’t mind if we keep on the tour till the end of June, will you? Cupid is sitting gaily in the donkey-cart alongside Pippa, and though Aurora and Alan don’t quite realize his presence yet, they soon will discover him, and will no doubt bring him back as a permanent guest to London. That, of course, was my main idea when I proposed the tour. High Art, thank goodness, is getting wan and pale. She had almost her death-blow the other day when Aurora made a daisy-chain with which she adorned Alan, and he fell into a pond dabbling after tadpoles for Pippa. We fished him out and wrapped him in a rug, while we spread his clothes in a buttercup field to dry. The warmth of their gold was enough to dry them, let alone the sun. I heard Cupid chuckling, the rogue! We miss you a lot, and the best thing we have to look forward to on our return is your welcome....”
Miss Mason put down the letter with a little sigh of happiness. Her heart felt nearly as warm and sunny as the buttercup field.
Then she set out to meet Bridget at Storey’s in Kensington High Street.
Exactly three weeks after Miss Mason’s peregrination to Chiswick she put a request to Jasper.
“I want,” she said, in as careless a voice as she could assume, “to call on a friend of mine this afternoon, and I want you to come with me.”
Jasper looked dismayed. “I should be delighted,” he said mendaciously, “only calling isn’t a bit in my line.”
“It’s quite near at hand,” said Miss Mason; “only at a flat in Beaufort Street, and I particularly want you to meet my friend.”
“Very well,” said Jasper, suppressing a sigh.
“We’ll start,” said Miss Mason, “at half-past three.”