‘Yes,’ murmured Madeline, scarcely attending, as she gazed rather vacantly round the room.
‘Have you seen Botticelli Jones’s picture of her ladyship as “A Lily of Languor in the Garden of Proserpine”? No? Well, Ponto says it is the most superbly sane and cosmic thing——’
He was interrupted by a cry from Madeline, who, leaving his side without a word of apology, crossed the room rapidly, and approached a grim-looking person with a light beard, clad in a very shabby dress suit and rather disreputable boots.
This was no other person than Jack Bingham, an artist by profession, of the old ‘pipe and beer’ school, and a bosom friend of Marmaduke White.
‘What, Jack!’ she cried, holding out both her hands.
Everybody called him Jack.
As she spoke the grim face relaxed into a smile.
‘What, is it you?’ returned Jack, with a delighted laugh.
‘Yes, and I am so glad to see you. But who would have thought of meeting you here, of all the places in the world? Dear, dear Jack, the very sight of you calls up old times.’
And tears stood in her eyes as she gazed upon his homely face. Jack was affected too in his rough way, so he made a diversion.