"Yes; quite well."
"You agree with me, then?"
"Certainly," said the tweed suit, moving rather uneasily under the piercing gaze of the artist.
Mr. Ingerstall's swart face was irradiated with a triumphal grin, which was distinctly simian. He turned to the Duchess: "There, your Grace," he said; "you see there are others of my opinion."
"Ah! but Mr. Van Adam doesn't know London yet," the Duchess retorted.
"Then I'll show it him!" cried Mr. Ingerstall, with a glee that was diabolic. "I'll show him Madame Tussaud's, the Piccadilly fountain, the mosaics—heaven preserve us all!—in St Paul's, "glowing with life and colour," as the poor dear Chapter expresses it, the Royal Academy—at its very best this year—the sublime architecture of Buckingham Palace, the restaurants out of which you are turned at half-past twelve, after mumbling the final course of your abbreviated supper by the light of a tallow-candle. Oh, I'll show Mr. Adams London!"
"Van Adam," interposed Mr. Rodney restoratively.
"Mr. Van Adam, London. Will you come with me?"
He thrust this last remark at the tweed suit, which replied in a rather muffled voice:
"Thank you very much."