“What’s the trouble, old scout?” I asked.
“If I had the artistic what’s-its-name,” he went on, “if the mere mention of pictures didn’t give me the pip, I dare say it wouldn’t be so bad. As it is, it’s rotten!”
“Pictures?”
“Pictures. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like when one gives her her head?”
I remembered then—it hadn’t come back to me before—that most of my time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries. During the period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill. Somehow it had never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after marrying an artist. I should have thought that by this time the mere sight of a picture would have fed her up. Not so, however, according to old Bill.
“They talk pictures at every meal,” he said. “I tell you, it makes a chap feel out of it. How long are you down for?”
“A few days.”
“Take my tip, and let me send you a wire from London. I go there to-morrow. I promised to play against the Scottish. The idea was that I was to come back after the match. But you couldn’t get me back with a lasso.”
I tried to point out the silver lining.
“But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there’s a most corking links near here.”