“Oh, there you are.... Come in.”
The voice came from one of the open French windows. It was the madman standing at one end of the room at an easel. He evidently thought he was an artist just as the girl had warned him. Hastily Robert flung his overcoat over a garden seat and entered in all the glory of his Charles the First costume.
“Good evening,” said the artist. “You’ve come to sit for me?”
Robert assumed the simpering expression of one who humours a madman.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I’ve come to sit for you.”
Certainly the effect of the simper superimposed upon the stern set expression of resolve would have justified anyone regarding Robert in his bizarre costume as mentally though not dangerously deranged. The artist posed him appropriately and then proceeded to test the sanity or insanity of his sitter.
“Well,” he said, “how’s Charles the First to-day?”
Robert went paler and gathered his forces together. At all costs he must humour him.
“His Majesty,” he said solemnly, “seems of a truth well to-day.”
Rather good that, he thought.