Shrewdly positive that he possessed a work of Art worth exhibiting, and a golden opportunity of advertising his hitherto unexploited talent, Digby Maur had well-timed his leave. All individuals occupying the local seats of the Mighty would be present; besides, at this height of the Season, many outside visitors.
There must follow comment and inquiries as to the identity of the artist who had produced "Imprisoned Flames."
He was right. There were visitors, and, among them, a millionaire on a private steam-yacht and his personal physician; a young man with an inquisitive expression, reddish hair and a loud happy voice which he dogmatically raised upon matters which the Elderly and Unenterprising had long elected to approach with caution.
In due course the new-comers found themselves conducted by the residents, to the Art Show, where the chief item was already admitted to be a unique painting which most people only remembered as the Girl and the Gul Mohurs, though the artist had baptized it more erotically.
Said Peter to his neighbour, after a cursory glance, "Why, that's my sister!"
Several people turned, and, amongst them, a hovering Anglo-Burman, referred to in hushed tones as the artist.
Colonel Maddock put up his eye-glass with an astounded, "Bless my soul! It is Ferlie. Where on earth did the little minx have it done?"
"It's damned good," said Peter. "Probably it is Cyprian's. I'd like to have a copy. When we run them to earth we will ask them why they never told us it was here."
The Colonel and Peter never discussed the fugitives.
Aunt B., mistrusting the frailty of human flesh, had not mentioned the relationship under which they were masquerading. They might have already dropped it in anticipation of the divorce to which in common sense they must finally succumb. Better, she thought, to let Ferlie tell her own tale to Peter. She had not foreseen that Ferlie would delay too long in replying to Peter's letter, on the basis that least said on paper soonest mended.