“I suppose I am,” replied the young man. “Matt and I are excellent friends.”
Monk did not smile now; all his efforts to do so were ineffectual. With an expression of savage dislike, he looked in Brinkley’s face, and his voice, though his words were still civil, trembled and grew harsh “as scrannel pipes of straw.”
“May I ask if you purpose remaining long in the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t know,” answered the artist. “My time is my own, and I shall stay as long as the place amuses me.”
“If I can assist in making it do so, I shall be happy, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you care for rabbit shooting? If so, there is some sport to be had among the sand-hills.”
“I never shoot anything,” was the reply, “except, I suppose, ‘folly as it flies;’ though with what species of firearm that interesting sport is pursued,” he added, as if to himself, “I haven’t the slightest idea!”
“Well, good day,” said Monk, with an uneasy scowl. “If I can be of any service to you, command me!”
And, raising his hat again, he stalked away.