'I see what you mean. But they have much more colour. And now you are going to do some one here?'
'I have been invited to do Sir David. I'm rather disappointed at not seeing him this evening.'
'Oh, he goes to bed at some unnatural hour—eight o'clock or something of that sort. You know he's rather an old mummy.'
'An old mummy?' Oliver Lyon repeated.
'I mean he wears half a dozen waistcoats, and that sort of thing. He's always cold.'
'I have never seen him and never seen any portrait or photograph of him,' Lyon said. 'I'm surprised at his never having had anything done—at their waiting all these years.'
'Ah, that's because he was afraid, you know; it was a kind of superstition. He was sure that if anything were done he would die directly afterwards. He has only consented to-day.'
'He's ready to die then?'
'Oh, now he's so old he doesn't care.'
'Well, I hope I shan't kill him,' said Lyon. 'It was rather unnatural in his son to send for me.'
'Oh, they have nothing to gain—everything is theirs already!' his companion rejoined, as if she took this speech quite literally. Her talkativeness was systematic—she fraternised as seriously as she might have played whist. 'They do as they like—they fill the house with people—they have carte blanche.'
'I see—but there's still the title.'
'Yes, but what is it?'
Our artist broke into laughter at this, whereat
