"My name is Sir Graham Hamilton," he said presently.
Uniacke started with surprise and looked at the stranger curiously. He had read much of the great sea painter, of his lonely wanderings, of his melancholy, of his extraordinary house in Kensington, and, just recently, of his wretched condition of health, which, it was said, had driven him suddenly from London, the papers knew not whither.
"I thought you were ill," he blurted out.
"I am not very well," the painter said simply, "and the inn here is exceedingly uncomfortable. But I want to stay. This is the very home of the sea. Here I find not merely the body of the sea but also its soul."
"There are no good lodgings, I am afraid," said the clergyman. "Nobody ever wants to lodge here, it seems."
"I do. Well, then, I must keep on at the inn."
"Come to stay with me, will you?" Uniacke suddenly said. "I have a spare room. It is scarcely ever occupied. My friends find this island a far cry, except in the height of summer. I shall be glad of your company and glad to make you as comfortable as I can."
"You are very kind," said the painter, hesitating. "But I scarcely—"
"Come as my guest," said the clergyman, reddening slightly.
"Thank you, I will. And some day you must come to me in London."