We're
having a troublesome time in Ailie Street, and it was holiday now or
never. By the bye, we shall have to wind up. Sugar spells ruin. We
must get out of it whilst we can do so with a whole skin."
"Ah, really?" muttered Franks. "Tell me about that presently; I want
to hear of Rosamund. You saw a good deal of her, of course?"
"I walked from Chamonix over the Col de Balme--grand view of Mont
Blanc there! Then down to Trient, in the valley below. And there, as
I went in to dinner at the hotel, I found the three. Good old
Pomfret would have me stay awhile, and I was glad of the chance of
long talks with him. Queer old bird, Ralph Pomfret."
"Yes, yes, so he is," muttered the artist, absently. "But Rosamund
--was she enjoying herself?"
"Very much, I think. She certainly looked very well."
"Have much talk with her?" asked Franks, as if carelessly.
"We discussed you, of course. I forget whether our conclusion was
favourable or not."
The artist laughed, and strode about the room with his hands in his
pockets.
"You know what?" he exclaimed, seeming to look closely at a print on
the wall. "I'm going to be married before the end of the year. On
that point I've made up my mind. I went yesterday to see a house at
Fulham--Mrs. Cross's, by the bye, it's to let at Michaelmas, rent
forty-five. All but settled that I shall take it. Risk be hanged.
I'm going to make money. What an ass I was to take that fellow's
first offer for 'Sanctuary'! It was low water with me, and I felt
bilious.
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