Pharos the Egyptian | Page 8

my life. In that case I would take a long holiday, and instead of spending the next winter in England, would start for Egypt in the autumn, taking in Italy en route, make my way up the Nile, and be home again, all being well, in the spring, or, at latest, during the early days of summer.
Ever since I first became an exhibitor at Burlington House, I have made it a rule to studiously avoid visiting the gallery after varnishing day. My reasons would interest no one, but they were sufficiently strong to induce me to adhere to them. This year, however, I was led into doing so in a quite unintentional fashion, and as that exception vitally concerns this narrative, I must explain the circumstances that led up to it in detail.
On a certain Friday, early in June, I was sitting in my studio, after lunch, wondering what I should do with myself during the afternoon, when a knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, after I had invited whoever stood outside to enter, my old friend, George Merridew, his wife, son, and three daughters, trooped into the room. They were plainly up from the country, and, as usual, were doing the sights at express speed. George Merridew, as you know, stands six feet in his stockings, and is broad in proportion. His face is red, his eyes blue, and he carries with him wherever he goes the air of a prosperous country squire, which he certainly is. Like many other big men, he is unconscious of his strength, and when he shakes hands with you, you have reason to remember the fact for five minutes afterwards. His wife is small, and, as some folk declare, looks younger than her eldest daughter, who is a tennis champion, a golfer, and boasts a supreme contempt for Royal Academicians and, for that matter, for artists generally. The son is at Oxford, a nice enough young fellow with limpid blue eyes, who, to his father's disgust, takes no sort of interest in fox-hunting, racing, football, or any other sport, and has openly asserted his intention of entering the Church in the near future. There are two other girls, Gwendoline and Ethel--the latter, by the way, promises to be a second edition of her mother --who, at present, are in the advanced schoolroom stage, dine with their parents, except on state occasions, and play duets together on the piano with a conscientious regard for time and fingering that gives their father no small amount of pleasure, but with other people rather detracts from the beauty of the performance.
"Thank goodness, we have got you at last!" cried Merridew, as he rushed forward and gripped my hand with a cordiality that made me suffer in silent agony for minutes afterwards. "But, my dear fellow, what on earth induces you to live in a place that's so difficult to find? We have been all round the neighbourhood, here, there, and everywhere, making inquiries, and shouldn't have found you now had it not been for an intelligent butcher-boy, who put us on the right scent and enabled us to run you to earth at last."
"Such is fame, you see," I answered with a smile. One should be humble when one reflects that the knowledge of one's address is confined to a butcher-boy. "How do you do, Mrs. Merridew? I am sorry you should have had so much difficulty in discovering my poor abode."
I shook hands with the rest of the family, and, when I had done so, waited to be informed as to the reason of their visit.
"Now, look here," said the Squire, as he spoke, producing an enormous gold repeater from his pocket, which by sheer force of habit he held in his hand, though he never once looked at it during the time he was speaking. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. In the first place, you're to take us to the Academy to see your picture, which every one is talking about, and at the same time to act as showman and tell us who's who. After that you'll dine with us at the Langham, and go to the theatre afterwards. No, no, it's not a bit of use your pretending you've got another engagement. We don't come up to town very often, but when we do we enjoy ourselves, and--why, man alive! just consider--I haven't seen you since last autumn, and if you think I'm going to let you escape now, you're very much mistaken. Such a thing is not to be thought of, is it, mother?"
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Merridew was kind enough to say that she hoped I would comply with her husband's wishes. The daughters murmured something, which I have no doubt was intended to be