“Yes, as a nuisance man I should have been a success,” he went on, “whereas, as a British landowner!” he gave an expressive shrug. “Gwen, how do you think you’ll stand a flat clay country, overrun with woolly-brained squires and their dames and daughters?”
It was a horrid thought. Gwen gave a swift little turn to put it away from her; her dress caught in a stretched canvas put up face inwards against the wall, and brought it down with a muffled crash.
Strange came forward to help her put it up, and, with a hand of each of them on it, they paused suddenly and started, and with a quick turn of his hand Strange set it this time face outwards in its place, and looked into it with eager excitement, while Gwen’s face grew cold and still, with a touch of sternness on it.
While they were looking, the door burst open and Brydon came in with the milk and a soft paper parcel—looking like cakes.
“Strange, how did you find it?” he cried, “I never meant you to see it. Lady Strange, it is only a sketch.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “my dress caught in it and knocked it down, and as we raised it we saw the face, then, I suppose, curiosity did the rest.”
“When did you see my wife, Brydon?” said Strange, still absorbed in the picture.
“In church, the day she was married. I know I should have been in Paris, but I wanted to make this sketch. I want, when I know well enough how to do it,” he said, turning to her humbly, “to make a picture of you, Lady Strange, and to give it to Strange, and this is just the idea for it.”
“I am sure my husband must appreciate your kindness,” she said half absently.
Perhaps she might have put a little more warmth into her voice if she had seen the fallen face of the boy as he turned to look to his kettle. She had, however, already more to occupy her than she wanted.