P. Hyacinth smiled uncertainly, with a beseeching expression in his large blue eyes.
“Neither a vacation—nor yet exactly a—a habit, sir. I—I have my own philosophy of life, as you might say—”
“Ah!—a rather expensive one, I do say,” interrupted Mr. Lambert. “You are fortunate to be able to afford your philosophy. You expect to remain for long in these parts?”
“Not very long—that is, I—my plans are not definite.”
“My wife has given me to understand that you are—an artist?” Mr. Lambert observed in a tone that almost overcame the miserable Hyacinth.
“Not really—that is—with me, sir, Art is an—an avocation, as you might say—”
“Ah! And what might your vocation be?”
Mr. Montgomery waved his hand.
“That, sir, is inconstant, variable.”
“I am not surprised that it is,” remarked Mr. Lambert, and after that, he withdrew into his shell of icy silence, evidently waiting for further developments before he expressed his opinion of P. Hyacinth still more plainly.