Red Money | Page 9

are certain to come in for everything."
"Everything consists of nothing," said the artist coolly.
"Well," drawled Miss Greeby, puffing luxuriously at her cigarette, which was Turkish and soothing, "nothing may turn into something when these mortgages are cleared off."
"Who is going to clear them off?"
"Sir Hubert Pine."
Lambert's brows contracted, as she knew they would when this name was mentioned, and he carefully attended to filling his pipe so as to avoid meeting her hard, inquisitive eyes. "Pine is a man of business, and if he pays off the mortgages he will take over the property as security. I don't see that Garvington will be any the better off in that case."
"Lambert," said Miss Greeby very decidedly, and determined to know precisely what he felt like, "Garvington only allowed his sister to marry Sir Hubert because he was rich. I don't know for certain, of course, but I should think it probable that he made an arrangement with Pine to have things put straight because of the marriage."
"Possible and probable," said the artist shortly, and wincing; "but old friend as you are, Clara, I don't see the necessity of talking about business which does not concern me. Speak to Garvington."
"Agnes concerns you."
"How objectionably direct you are," exclaimed Lambert in a vexed tone. "And how utterly wrong. Agnes does not concern me in the least. I loved her, but as she chose to marry Pine, why there's no more to be said."
"If there was nothing more to be said," observed Miss Greeby shrewdly, "you would not be burying yourself here."
"Why not? I am fond of nature and art, and my income is not enough to permit my living decently in London. I had to leave the army because I was so poor. Garvington has given me this cottage rent free, so I'm jolly enough with my painting and with Mrs. Tribb as housekeeper and cook. She's a perfect dream of a cook," ended Lambert thoughtfully.
Miss Greeby shook her red head. "You can't deceive me."
"Who wants to, anyhow?" demanded the man, unconsciously American.
"You do. You wish to make out that you prefer to camp here instead of admitting that you would like to be at The Manor because Agnes--"
Lambert jumped up crossly. "Oh, leave Agnes out of the question. She is Pine's wife, so that settles things. It's no use crying for the moon, and--"
"Then you still wish for the moon," interpolated the woman quickly.
"Not even you have the right to ask me such a question," replied Lambert in a quiet and decisive tone. "Let us change the subject."
Miss Greeby pointed to the beautiful face smiling on the easel. "I advise you to," she said significantly.
"You seem to have come here to give me good advice."
"Which you won't take," she retorted.
"Because it isn't needed."
"A man's a man and a woman's a woman."
"That's as true as taxes, as Mr. Barkis observed, if you are acquainted with the writings of the late Charles Dickens. Well?"
Again Miss Greeby pointed to the picture. "She's very pretty."
"I shouldn't have painted her otherwise."
"Oh, then the original of that portrait does exist?"
"Could you call it a portrait if an original didn't exist?" demanded the young man tartly. "Since you want to know so much, you may as well come to the gypsy encampment on the verge of the wood and satisfy yourself." He threw on a Panama hat, with a cross look. "Since when have you come to the conclusion that I need a dry nurse?"
"Oh, don't talk bosh!" said Miss Greeby vigorously, and springing to her feet. "You take me at the foot of the letter and too seriously. I only came here to see how my old pal was getting on."
"I'm all right and as jolly as a sandboy. Now are you satisfied?"
"Quite. Only don't fall in love with the original of your portrait."
"It's rather late in the day to warn me," said Lambert dryly, "for I have known the girl for six months. I met her in a gypsy caravan when on a walking tour, and offered to paint her. She is down here with her people, and you can see her whenever you have a mind to."
"There's no time like the present," said Miss Greeby, accepting the offer with alacrity. "Come along, old boy." Then, when they stepped out of the cottage garden on to the lawns, she asked pointedly, "What is her name?"
"Chaldea."
"Nonsense. That is the name of the country."
"I never denied that, my dear girl. But Chaldea was born in the country whence she takes her name. Down Mesopotamia way, I believe. These gypsies wander far and wide, you know. She's very pretty, and has the temper of the foul fiend himself. Only Kara can keep her in order."
"Who is Kara?"
"A Servian gypsy who plays the fiddle like an angel. He's a crooked-backed, black-faced, hairy