“These other—well, less definite occupations, seem to take more of your time and attention. You don’t paint as much as you did.”
Erard waited, thereby increasing the old man’s embarrassment. “I know your idea—education, but it means less active—accomplishment. You don’t paint, you know.” He ended with this feeble reiteration. Still Erard kept a mouselike silence.
“You may be right. I don’t pretend to know. I shouldn’t want to interfere. But—well—I think we should terminate our—”
Erard moved his hand lightly, as if to spare the further embarrassment of explicit statement. “Of course!”
“I have been tremendously interested in you, my boy,” Mr. Anthon continued more easily, “and I am now. So I thought I wouldn’t write it.” He smiled sweetly. “Now, you mustn’t take it hard or be disturbed. I shall leave a hundred or two at my banker’s—”
Erard protested. “No; that will not be necessary.”
Mr. Anthon’s face clouded over. He had evidently bungled. Yet he was secretly glad to have this evidence of right feeling to throw at his sister-in-law.
“Don’t be in haste about it. You will find the money there in case you need it.”
“I shall not draw another penny. It would be quite impossible—now that I have lost your sympathy.”
Perhaps Mrs. Warmister has already taken him over, the old man reflected uncomfortably. They talked for a few minutes of other matters. Then, as he rose to leave and buttoned up his frockcoat, he glanced about the charming rooms. The possibility of Erard’s difficulties troubled him.