Aline was contemplating the hole in the sock when the door opened. She sprang to her feet, advanced a step, and then halted with a little exclamation.
“Oh, it's you!”
“Yes. Are you disappointed?” asked the smiling youth who had appeared instead of the expected Jimmie.
“I can get over it. How are you, Tony?”
Mr. Anthony Merewether gave her the superfluous assurance that he was in good health. He had the pleasant boyish face and clean-limbed figure of the young Englishman upon whom cares sit lightly. Aline resumed her work demurely. The young man seated himself near by.
“How is Jimmie?”
“Whom are you calling 'Jimmie'?” asked Aline. “Mr. Padgate, if you please.”
“You call him Jimmie.”
“I've called him so ever since I could speak. I think it was one of the first three words I learned. When you can say the same, you can call him Jimmie.”
“Well, how is Mr. Padgate?” the snubbed youth asked with due humility.
“You can never tell how a man is before breakfast. Why are n't you at work?”
He bowed to her sagacity, and in answer to her question explained the purport of his visit. He was going to spend the day sketching up the river. Would she put on her hat and come with him?
“A fine lot of sketching you'd do, if I did,” said Aline.
The young man vowed with fervour that as soon as he had settled down to a view he would work furiously and would not exchange a remark with her.
“Which would be very amusing for me,” retorted Aline. “No, I can't come. I'm far too busy. I've got to hunt up a model for the new picture.”
Tony leant back in his chair, dispirited, and began to protest. She laughed at his woeful face, and half yielding, questioned him about trains. He overwhelmed her with a rush of figures, then paused to give her time to recover. His eyes wandered to the breakfast-table, where lay Jimmie's unopened correspondence. One letter lay apart from the others. Tony took it up idly.
“Here's a letter come to the wrong house.”
“No; it is quite right,” said Aline.
“Who is David Rendell, Esquire?”
“Mr. Rendell is a friend of Jimmie's, I believe.”
“I have never heard of him. What's he like?”
“I don't know. Jimmie never speaks of him,” replied Aline.
“That's odd.”
The young man threw the letter on the table and returned to the subject of the outing. She must accompany him. He felt a perfect watercolour working itself up within him. One of those dreamy bits of backwater. He had a title for it already, “The Heart of Summer.” The difference her presence in the punt would make to the picture would be that between life and deadness.
The girl fluttered a shy, pleased glance at him. But she loved to tease; besides, had she not but lately awakened to the sweet novelty of her young womanhood?
“Perhaps Jimmie won't let me go.”
Tony sprang to his feet. “Jimmie won't let you go!” he exclaimed in indignant echo. “Did he ever deny you a pleasure since you were born?”
Her eyes sparkled at his tribute to the adored one's excellences. “That's just where it is, you see, Tony. His very goodness to me won't let me do things sometimes.”
The servant hurried in with the breakfast-tray and the news that the master was coming down. Aline anxiously inspected the bacon. To her relief it was freshly cooked. In a minute or two a voice humming an air was heard outside, and Jimmie entered, smilingly content with existence.
“Hallo, Tony, what are you doing here, wasting the morning light? Have some breakfast? Why haven't you laid a place for him?”
Tony declined the invitation, and explained his presence. Jimmie rubbed his hands.
“A day on the river! The very thing for Aline. It will do her good.”
“I did n't say I was going, Jimmie.”
“Not going? Rubbish. Put on your things and be off at once.”
“How can I until I have given you your breakfast? And then there's the model—you would never be able to engage her by yourself. And you must have her to-morrow.”
“I know I'm helpless, dear, but I can engage a model.”
“And waste your time. Besides, you won't be able to find the address.”
“There are cab-horses, dear, with unerring instinct.”
“Your breakfast is getting cold, Jimmie,” said Aline, not condescending to notice the outrage of her economic principles.
Eventually Jimmie had his way. Tony Merewether was summarily dismissed, but bidden to return in an hour's time, when Aline would be graciously pleased to be ready. She poured out Jimmie's coffee, and sat at the side of the table, watching him eat. He turned to his letters, picked up the one addressed to “David Rendell.” Aline noticed a shade of displeasure cross his face.
“Who is Mr. Rendell, Jimmie?” asked Aline.
“A man I know, dear,” he replied, putting the envelope in his pocket. He went on with his breakfast meditatively for a few moments, then opened his other letters. He threw a couple of bills across the table. His face had regained its serenity.
“See that these ill-mannered people are paid, Aline.”
“What with, dear?”
“Money, my child, money. What!” he exclaimed, noting a familiar expression on her face. “Are we running short? Send them telegrams to say we'll pay next week. Something is bound to come in by then.”
“Mrs. Bullingdon ought to send the cheque for her portrait,” said Aline.
“Of course she will. And there's something due from Hyam. What a thing it is to have great expectations! Here's one from Renshaw,” he said, opening another letter. “'Dear Padgate'—Dear Padgate!” He put his hands on the table and looked across at Aline. “Now, what on earth can I have done to offend him? I've been 'Dear Jimmie' for the last twelve years.”
Aline shook her young head pityingly. “Don't you know yet that it is always 'Dear Padgate' when they want to borrow money of you?”
Jimmie glanced at the letter and then across the table again.
“Dear me,” he said thoughtfully. “Your knowledge of the world at your tender age is surprising. He does want