“I am an artist,” Shiel said.  “No, I’ve nothing beyond what my uncle was good enough to allow me.”

“An artist!” John Martin murmured, “how like Dick!  Have you entertained the idea of inheriting a fortune?  Have you any reason to suppose that your uncle was well off and had made you his heir!”

“I gathered so, sir, from the manner in which he lived and his attitude towards me.”

“Well! we won’t talk it over now—­leave it till after the funeral.  Are you bent on continuing painting?  There is very little remuneration in it, is there?”

“Not much,” Shiel answered gloomily, “but I shouldn’t care to give it up—­unless of course it is absolutely necessary for me to do so.”

“Being an artist you wouldn’t be much good in business.”

“None!”

“At all events, you are candid.  Well!  I don’t see any good in our dallying here—­I had best go back with you to Sydenham.  I’ve got a letter to write first, but I shan’t be long.”

He was long enough, however, for Shiel to have another chat with Gladys.  “Do you believe in dreams?” she asked him.  “I had such a queer one last night, about trees and flowers; and, oddly enough, my father also dreamed of trees and flowers, and of the very same ones too.  I am going into Town to-day to consult a firm that has just set up, called the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.  They profess to interpret dreams, and I am anxious to see whether they can.”

“In Cockspur Street, aren’t they?” Shiel asked.  “I saw their advertisement in one of the papers.  I presume you are not going there alone?”

“No!” Gladys laughed, “I shall go with a friend, though I often do go into Town alone.  I can assure you I am quite capable of looking after myself.  In that respect, at least, I am quite up to date.  Probably you are more accustomed to French girls?”

“Yes!  I have spent most of my life in Paris,” Shiel said.  “But how could you tell that?”

“Oh!  I guessed you were an artist—­and had probably spent some time in Paris”—­Gladys rejoined, “by the way you looked at the house and garden.  I could read appreciation in your eyes and gesture; such appreciation, as I knew, could only come from an artist.  G.W.  Barnett helped me in planning this cottage and the garden.”

“What!  Barnett the landscape painter!  I am a great admirer of his work.  Were you a pupil of his?”

“Yes, he was one of the visiting R.A.’s at the Beechcroft Studio in St. John’s Wood, where I worked for three years.  We were then living in Blackheath—­St. John’s Park—­a hateful place.  Mr. Barnett was awfully good, when I told him we were moving, and that I wanted to live in really artistic surroundings—­he suggested that I should be my own architect, and promised to do everything he could to assist me,”

“And your father hadn’t a say in the matter,” Shiel commented, with an amused smile.

“Not in that,” Gladys said complacently, “though there are one or two things in which he has a very decided say.  Father can be very self-willed and obstinate, when he likes.  But as I was remarking when you interrupted me—­”