“Work be hanged!” he exclaimed.

A soft voice answered him almost in his ear, a voice which was becoming very familiar.

“A most admirable sentiment, my young friend, which you seem to be doing your best to live up to.  Not a line written, I see.”

He sat up upon his rug.  Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, was there by his side.  Behind was the faithful Meekins, with an easel under his arm.

“I trust that your first night in your new abode has been a pleasant one?” Mr. Fentolin asked.

“I slept quite well, thanks,” Hamel replied.  “Glad to see you’re going to paint.”

Mr. Fentolin shook his head gloomily.

“It is, alas!” he declared, “one of my weaknesses.  I can work only in solitude.  I came down on the chance that the fine weather might have tempted you over to the Golf Club.  As it is, I shall return.”

“I am awfully sorry,” Hamel said.  “Can’t I go out of sight somewhere?”

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

“I will not ask your pardon for my absurd humours,” he continued, a little sadly.  “Their existence, however, I cannot deny.  I will wait.”

“It seems a pity for you to do that,” Hamel remarked.  “You see, I might stay here for some time.”

Mr. Fentolin’s face darkened.  He looked at the young man with a sort of pensive wrath.

“If,” the latter went on, “you say ‘yes’ to something I am going to ask you, I might even stay—­in the neighbourhood—­for longer still.”

Mr. Fentolin sat quite motionless in his chair; his eyes were fixed upon Hamel.

“What is it that you are going to ask me?” he demanded.

“I want to marry your niece.”

Mr. Fentolin looked at the young man in mild surprise.

“A sudden decision on your part, Mr. Hamel?” he murmured.

“Not at all,” Hamel assured him.  “I have been ten years looking for her.”

“And the young lady?” Mr. Fentolin enquired.  “What does she say?”

“I believe, sir,” Hamel replied, “that she would be willing.”

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

“One is forced sometimes,” he remarked regretfully, “to realise the selfishness of our young people.  For many years one devotes oneself to providing them with all the comforts and luxuries of life.  Then, in a single day, they turn around and give everything they have to give to a stranger.  So you want to marry Esther?”

“If you please.”

“She has a very moderate fortune.”

“She need have none at all,” Hamel replied; “I have enough.”

Mr. Fentolin glanced towards the house.

“Then,” he said, “I think you had better go and tell her so; in which case, I shall be able to paint.”

“I have your permission, then?” Hamel asked, rising to his feet eagerly.

“Negatively,” Mr. Fentolin agreed, “you have.  I cannot refuse.  Esther is of age; the thing is reasonable.  I do not know whether she will be happy with you or not.  A young man of your disposition who declines to study the whims of an unfortunate creature like myself is scarcely likely to be possessed of much sensibility.  However, perhaps your views as to a solitary residence here will change with your engagement to my niece.”