"A myrtle," said Sir Arthur. "In that chap—a myrtle?" He plucked at his moustache and looked at the laughing Laura. "Why—pray—a myrtle?"
"Papa, how dense you are!"
A hit clean and fair, which after a very little thought Sir Arthur was man enough to own. His one excuse, and a poor one, was that in certain things the sex to which he had the misfortune to belong, was notoriously "slow in the uptake."
It was now William's turn to acclaim the idea. Blushing deeply said that quaint and whimsical young man: "Yes, Miss Babraham, with your permission we will plant a myrtle in the jar of Knossos."
In the laugh which followed June did not share; just now her feeling was that she would never be able to laugh again.
Sir Arthur, still tactful, now conceived it to be his duty to cheer the poor girl up. "By the way," he said, "has my daughter told you what we propose to do with your Van Roon? Of course with your permission."
June simply longed for the power to say that it was not for her to give the permission as the Van Roon was not hers. But she was living just now in a kind of dream in which action and speech had no part. The only thing she could do was to listen passively to the voice of Sir Arthur, while it leisurely unfolded a tale of fairyland.
"I must tell you," he said, "subject to your approval—always, of course, subject to that—we have formed a sort of committee to deal with this picture of yours. It has given rise to a rather curious position. We think—three or four of us—that it ought to be acquired for the nation; but of course there's the question of price.
