"What ball?"

"A subscription ball at Henfield--a county ball. Will you come?"

"Yes, I don't mind. It should be rather fun. Are you going?"

"Yes, I must go, worse luck, to chaperon my sisters."

"How do you go? Will the governor let you have the horses?"

"Not he! We generally have a large 'bus. I am going down to-morrow by the twelve o'clock train. Will that be too early for you?"

"Not if I go home now and pack up."

"You won't like that. You had better sleep here and get up early in the morning; your room is all ready."

"I couldn't manage it. I never could get back to the Temple, pack up, and meet you at twelve at London Bridge."

"It will be rather a cold walk for you; you are too late for the train, and the last 'bus, I am afraid, has gone."

"I shall have a hansom. The only thing that worries me is not being able to say good-bye to the missus."

"She's fast asleep. She won't mind--I'll make that all right."

"Then, at twelve o'clock at London Bridge!"

VIII

Sally rushed down to meet him, and she took him off for a walk in the garden.

"What a time it is since we have seen you. What have you been doing-- amusing yourself a great deal, I suppose?"

"I have been the whole time in Paris. I have been studying very hard.

I only returned home about two months ago."

"I don't believe about the studying."

"I have been working at my painting. I worked morning and afternoon in the studio from the nude. Last summer I had a delightful time. I took a little place on the Seine--a little house near Bas Meudon. I had a garden; I used to breakfast every morning in the garden--fresh eggs, new bread, an omelette, such as only a Frenchwoman can make, a cutlet, or a piece of chicken. The wine, too, so fresh and generous. I don't know how it is, but Burgundy here is not the same as Burgundy on the banks of the Seine. I worked all day in my garden, or down by the river. I was painting a large picture. I haven't finished it yet. I must go back there in the summer to finish it."

"Why can't you finish it here? Haven't you got it here?"

"Yes, but the Seine is not here."

"Wouldn't the Adour do? The river at Sh.o.r.eham?"

"No; but the Thames might. My picture is really more English than French. There were a lot of willow trees there, and my picture represents a girl lying in a hammock, foot hanging over, showing such a pretty piece of black stocking. There are two men there, they are both swinging the hammock, but while one is looking at her ankle the other only sees her face."

Sally laughed coa.r.s.ely and evasively.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, feeling a little nettled.

"Don't you think people will think it rather improper?"

"Not at all. Why should they? The idea I wish to convey is that one man loves her truly for herself alone, the other only loves her because she is a pretty girl. I have composed some triolets for the picture, which will be printed in the catalogue--

"In a hammock I swing, My feet hanging over; 'Neath Love's bright wing, In a hammock I swing, Loves come and they bring A truth to discover, In a hammock I swing, My feet hanging over.

"That is the first stanza. There are six, and they tell the story of the picture. I will copy them into your alb.u.m, if you like."

"Will you? That will be so nice, if you will. The only thing is, I haven't an alb.u.m."

"Haven't you? I'll get you one. I'll send you one from London."

Sally asked him to explain the triolets, and very loyally she strove to understand.

"Ah, I see a thing when I am told, but I never can understand poetry or pictures until they are explained to me."

Mollified, Frank thought of going upstairs to fetch the copy book in which he wrote such things, but speaking out of an unperceived a.s.sociation of ideas, he said: "What a clever girl your sister is. I had once a long talk with her about pictures and poetry, and I was surprised to find how well she talked. She understands everything."

"Maggie is a clever girl; I know she is far cleverer than I am; but if you knew her as well as I do, you would find she did not understand all you think she understands."

"How do you mean?"

"Maggie's cleverness lies in being able to pretend she understands what she knows nothing about; I have often caught her out."

"Really; but how do you get on together now?"

"Pretty well! I don't think there is much love lost on either side. I don't know why--I never could understand Maggie. You have no idea of the reports she spreads about me all over the place--the stories she tells the Grahams, the Prestons, the Wells. She told Mrs. Wells that I fell in love with every young man that came to Southwick. She said awful things about me. As for that story about telling cook to put father's dinner back, I don't think I ever shall hear the last of it.

What made father so angry was because he thought it was to talk to Jimmy in the slonk."

"You told me the last time I was here that you wanted to finish a conversation with him in the slonk."

"I may have told you that it was to speak to him about his sister f.a.n.n.y," Sally replied evasively. "I would not care if I never saw him again; but I couldn't get on if I weren't allowed to see f.a.n.n.y. Father wanted me to promise never to enter the house again!"

"But you have flirted with him?"

"I don't know that I have; certainly not more than Maggie. Last summer she was hanging round his neck every evening under the sycamores. I caught them twice."

"I don't see any harm in going under the sycamores. I daresay Maggie has allowed him to kiss her; so have you!"

"That I a.s.sure you I haven't."

"You mean to say a man never kissed you?"