“Can I recommend a friend of mine?”
“Would he do it?”,
“I think so—if I asked him.”
“By Jove, who is he?” asked the youth, pulling down his shirtcuff for the purpose of making memoranda.
“Mr. James Padgate, 10 Friary Grove, N. W. He is Mr. King's most intimate friend.”
“He can paint all right, can't he?” asked the youth.
“Beautifully,” replied Norma. “Friary, not Priory,” she corrected, watching him make the note. She felt the uncommon satisfaction of having performed a virtuous act; one almost of penance for her cruelty to him on Sunday week, the memory of which had teased a not over-sensitive conscience. The scrag end of boiled mutton and the rind of cheese had also affected her, stirred her pity for the poor optimist, although in a revulsion of feeling she had shivered at his lot. She had closed her eyes for a second, and some impish wizardry of the brain had conjured up a picture of herself sitting down to such a meal, with Jimmie at the other side of the table. It was horrible. She had turned to fill her soul with the solid magnificence about her. The pity for Jimmie lingered, however, as a soothing sensation, and she welcomed the opportunity of playing Lady Bountiful. She glanced with some malice from the annotated cuff to her mother's face, expecting to see the glitter of disapproval in her eyes. To her astonishment, Mrs. Hardacre wore an expression of pleased abstraction.
Charlie Sandys pocketed his gold pencil and retired. He was a young man with the weight of many affairs on his shoulders.
“That's a capital idea of yours, Norma,” said Mrs. Hardacre.
“I'm glad you think so,” replied Norma, wonderingly.