In Friendships Guise | Page 9

like that, and a man saved her life, I
should be properly grateful. Poor girl, she can't lead a very happy life."
He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf of
manuscript aside. He rose and put on a hat and a black coat--he wore
evening dress as little as possible.
"Will you dine in town to-night, sir?" asked Alphonse, who was
cleaning a stack of brushes.
"Yes, oh, yes," Jack answered. "You can go when you have finished."
Whatever may have been his intention when he left the studio, Jack did
not cross the park toward the District Railway station. He walked
slowly to the high-road, and then westward with brisker step. He struck
down through Gunnersbury, by way of Sutton Court, and came out at
the river close to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green.
A girl was sitting on a bench near the shore, pensively watching the sun
drooping over the misty ramparts of Kew Bridge; she held a closed
book in one hand, and by her side lay a sketching-block and a box of
colors. She heard the young artist's footsteps, and glanced up. A lovely
blush suffused her countenance, and for an instant she was speechless.
Then, with less confusion, with the candor of an innocent and
unconventional nature, she said:

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Vernon."
"That is kind of you," Jack replied, with a smile.
"Yes, I wanted to thank you--"
"Your father has written to me."
"But that is different. I wanted to thank you for myself."
"I wish I were deserving of such gratitude," said Jack, thinking that the
girl looked far more charming than when he had first seen her.
"Ah, don't say that. You know that you saved my life. I am a good
swimmer, but that morning my clothes seemed to drag me down."
"I am glad that I happened to be near at the time," Jack replied, as he
seated himself without invitation on the bench. "But it is not a pleasant
topic--let us not talk about it."
"I shall never forget it," the girl answered softly. She was silent for a
moment, and then added gravely: "It is so strange to know you. I
admire artists so much, and I saw your picture in last year's Academy.
How surprised I was when I read your card!"
"You paint, yourself, Miss Foster?"
"No, I only try to. I wish I could."
She reluctantly yielded her block of Whatman's paper to Jack, and in
the portfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed real
promise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and then
the conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, and
the constant and varied beauty of the river at this point--a subject that
was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below the
bridge the girl suddenly rose and gathered her things.
"I must go," she said. "My father is coming home early to-day.
Good-by, Mr. Vernon."

"Not really good-by. I hope?"
An expression of sorrow and pain, almost pitiful, clouded her lovely
face. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in his
heart.
"I shall see you here sometimes?" he added.
"Perhaps."
"Then you do not forbid me to come again?"
"How can I do that? This river walk is quite free, Mr. Vernon. Oh,
please don't think me ungrateful, but--but--"
She turned her head quickly away, and did not finish the sentence. She
called a word of farewell over her shoulder, and Jack moodily watched
her slim and graceful figure vanish between the great elm trees that
guard the lower entrance to Strand-on-the-Green.
"John Vernon, you are a fool," he said to himself. "The best thing for
you is to pack up your traps and be off to-morrow morning for a couple
of months' sketching in Devonshire. You've been bitten once--look
out!"
He took a shilling from his pocket, and muttered, as he flipped it in the
air: "Tail, Richmond--head, town."
The coin fell tail upward, and Jack went off to dine at the Roebuck on
the hill, beloved of artists, where he met some boon companions and
argued about Whistler until a late hour.

CHAPTER IV.
NUMBER 320 WARDOUR STREET.
The rear-guard of London's great army of clerks had already vanished

in the city, and the hour was drawing near to eleven, when Victor
Nevill shook off his lassitude sufficiently to get out of bed. A cold tub
freshened him, and as he dressed with scrupulous care, choosing his
clothes from a well-filled wardrobe, he occasionally walked to the
window of his sitting-room and looked down on the narrow but lively
thoroughfare of Jermyn street. It was a fine morning, with the scent of
spring in the