“I am sure I don't quite know,” replied Jimmie, cheerfully.
“Humph!” said Mr. Hardacre, “I believe you are.”
Jimmie laughed; but Mr. Hardacre felt that he held the key to the eccentric talk of his guest. Jimmie Padgate was a radical; a fearful wildfowl of unutterable proclivities, to whom all things dreadful were possible.
“I,” he continued, “am proud to be a Tory of the old school.”
The entrance of the ladies put a stop to the distressful conversation.
Jimmie, whose life during the past few days had been a curious compound of sunshine and shadow, went about his morning's work with only Morland's troubles weighing upon him. Of their specific nature he had no notion; he knew they had to do with the unhappy love affair; but as Morland was going to put matters into the hands of his lawyers, a satisfactory solution was bound to be discovered. Like all simple-minded men, he had illimitable faith in the powers of solicitors and physicians; it was their business to get people out of difficulties, and if they were capable men they did their business. Deriving much comfort from this fallacy, he thought as little as might be about the matter. In fact he quite enjoyed his morning. He sat before his easel at the end of a high historic gallery, the bright morning light that streamed in through the windows tempered by judiciously arranged white blinds; and down the vista were great paintings, and rare onyx tables, and priceless chairs and statuary, all harmonising with the stately windows and painted ceiling and polished floor. In front of him, posed in befitting attitude, sat the royal lady, with her most urbane expression upon her features, and, that which pleased him most, the picture was just emerging from the blurred mass of paint, an excellent though somewhat idealised portrait. So he worked unfalteringly with the artist's joy in the consciousness of successful efforts, and his good-humour infected even his harsh sitter, who now and then showed a wintry gleam of gaiety, and uttered a guttural word of approbation.
“You shall come to Herren-Rothbeck and baint the bortrait of the brince my brother,” she said graciously. “Would that blease you?”
“I should just think it would,” said Jimmie.
The princess laughed—a creaking, rusty laugh, but thoroughly well intentioned. Jimmie glanced at her enquiringly.
“I like you,” she responded. “You are so natural—what you English call refreshing. A German would have made a ceremonious speech as long as your mahl-stick.”