Mrs. Sartwell rather grudgingly assented to this. Edna said nothing.
“You see, ladies, I am an artist—a painter of pictures. I work, as it were, in the past and in the future. I feel that I do not belong to the present, and these little details I know I ought to leave to those who understand how to deal with them. I told the mater so. But whether we are able to help Mr. Sartwell or not, you must allow me to thank you for a very charming afternoon. My studio is in Chelsea. It is said to be the finest in London; but of course I care nothing about that, to me it is merely my workshop. But there are relaxations even in artistic life, and every Tuesday afternoon from three o’clock till five I am at home to my friends. I expect the mater to receive my guests, and you must promise to come, Mrs. Sartwell, will you not? I will send you cards, and you will be sure to meet some nice people. May I count on you? I know the mater will be pleased.”
“I shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” said Mrs. Sartwell, softening under the genial influence of the young man.
“And you, too, Miss Sartwell?”
Edna looked somewhat dubiously at her stepmother.
“You will bring Miss Sartwell with you, will you not?” persisted the young man.
“I am always glad to do anything to add to Edna’s pleasure,” said Mrs. Sartwell, a trifle less cordially; “but it must be as her father says.”
“Then you will use your influence with him, Miss Sartwell, won’t you, and get him to consent. I am sure he will not refuse if you care to come.”
“I should like very much to go,” said Edna.
“Then we will look on it as settled.”