Frank Hamilton came in, as he was patting her hand, the two standing close together, and instant jealousy and suspicion filled him at the sight. It was the first time he had ever seen Claudia show any particular favour to a man, she was rather difficult to approach, and though it encouraged him not to be too diffident, he was also very angry with her. A couple of years ago he would have shown by his manner that he had noticed the little incident, but he had learned some of the usages of Mayfair, and he controlled himself. It showed itself, however, in a little stiffness.
“Oh! Mr. Hamilton, let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Colin Paton. He has just come back from the Argentine, where I suppose there are no pictures?”
“Only Nature’s, and those of the most wonderful. I read an account of one of your exhibitions in a paper that was sent out to me, Mr. Hamilton. I should have liked to see that show.”
“Mr. Paton educated my taste in pictures,” said Claudia, with a friendly glance at him. “He insisted on my liking the good things, and then I really did.”
“Don’t believe her, Mr. Hamilton, she was always an excellent natural judge of pictures.”
“But I did like them rather painty, at first, Colin, you must admit that. Do you remember that Leighton I adored and the Dicksee I found so poetical? And I made you stand and gaze at them, too. You must have stored up many a grudge against me for that.”
Hamilton had heard Claudia speak of “a friend now abroad,” who had been her constant companion at picture-galleries and who had lent her several art books. But he had somehow got the idea that the friend was middle-aged, if not old. He wondered how he had got the idea, but something in Claudia’s tone had conveyed it to his mind. The man that he saw was neither quite young, middle-aged, nor old, and yet Hamilton felt there was a steady fund of youth in him. He instinctively understood that this man’s judgment would be worth having, that those quiet, keen eyes would make short work of his careless and meretricious paintings. For, though usually he was amply content with his own ability, he was aware at intervals that some of it left much to be desired, both in form and execution. He had a heaven-born gift for catching a likeness, and a great feeling for colour, but his technique was faulty, and lately he had done too much and too little.
“I shall be giving another exhibition next month. I hope you will come to it,” he replied.
“I shall make a point of doing so.”