Mr. Manby screwed up his eyes, put his head very much on one side, and peered into the wild face of Nature with a pale, propitiatory smile.
"Yes, yes; I mustn't neglect my opportunities. Every minute of this weather is invaluable."
"It strikes me," said Frida, as Durant established himself beside her again, "that it's you artists whose devotion to Nature is—well—not altogether disinterested."
"Manby's affection seems to be pretty sincere; it stands the test of seasickness."
"Oh, Mr. Manby doesn't really care very much for nature or for art either."
"What does he try to paint pictures for, then?"
"He tries to paint them for a living, for himself and the little girls." And Frida looked tenderly at Mr. Manby as she spoke.
At that moment Durant hated Mr. Manby with a deadly hatred. He had gone so far as to find a malignant satisfaction in the thought that Mr. Manby's pictures were bad, when he remembered that Frida had a weakness for bad pictures. Art did not appeal to Frida. She talked about Paris and Florence and Rome without a word of the Louvre or the Uffizi Gallery or the Vatican. She didn't care a rap about Raphael or Rubens, but she hampered herself with Manbys.
"Is there a Mrs. Manby?" he asked gloomily.
"No. Mrs. Manby died last year."