"You mean to paint it here?" the clergyman faltered.
Sir Graham was evidently struck by his host's air of painful discomfiture.
"I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "Of course I do not mean to inflict myself upon your kind hospitality while I am working. I shall return to the inn."
Uniacke flushed red at being so misunderstood.
"I cannot let you do that. No, no! Honestly, my question was only prompted by—by—a thought—"
"Yes?"
"Do not think me impertinent. But, really, a regard for you has grown up in me since you have allowed me to know you—a great regard indeed."
"Thank you, thank you, Uniacke," said the painter, obviously moved.
"And it has struck me that in your present condition of health, and seeing that your mind is pursued by these—these melancholy sea thoughts and imaginings, it might be safer, better for you to be in a place less desolate, less preyed upon by the sea. That is all. Believe me, that is all."
He spoke the last words with the peculiar insistence and almost declamatory fervour of the liar. But he was now embarked upon deceit and must crowd all sail. And with the utterance of his lie he took an abrupt resolution.