“The beauty that exists everywhere, even in ugly things.  The beauty that ordinary people don’t see,” returned Austin.  “Anybody can see beauty in what are called beautiful things—­light, and colour, and grace.  But it takes an artist to see beauty in a muddy road, and dripping branches, and drenching rain.  How people cursed and grumbled on that rainy day we had last week; it made me sick to hear them.  Now I saw the beauty under the ugliness of it all—­the wonderful soft greys and browns, the tiny glints of silver between the leaves, the flashes of pearl and orpiment behind the shifting clouds.  Do you know, I even see beauty in this wooden leg of mine, great beauty, though everybody else thinks it perfectly hideous!  So that is why I hope I am not wrong in imagining that perhaps I may, really, be in some sense an artist.”

For a moment St Aubyn did not speak.  “The boy’s a great artist,” he muttered to himself.  His interest was now excited in good earnest; here was no common mind.  Of art Austin knew practically nothing, but the artistic instinct was evidently tingling in every vein of him.  St Aubyn himself lived for art and literature, and was amazed to have come across so curiously exceptional a personality.  He drew the boy out a little more, and then, in a moment of impulse, did a most unaccustomed thing:  he invited Austin to lunch with him on the following Thursday, promising, in addition, that they should spend the afternoon together looking over his conservatories and picture-gallery.

So great an honour, so undreamt-of a privilege, sent Austin’s blood to the roots of his hair.  He flourished his leg more proudly than ever as he stumped victoriously home and announced the great news to Aunt Charlotte.  That estimable lady was fingering some notepaper on her writing-table as her excited nephew came bursting in upon her with his face radiant.

“Auntie,” he cried, “what do you think?  You’ll never guess.  I’m going to lunch with Mr St Aubyn on Thursday!”

Aunt Charlotte turned round, looking slightly dazed.

“Going to lunch with whom?” she asked.

“With Mr St Aubyn.  You know—­he lives at Moorcombe Court.  I met him in the woods and had a long talk with him, and now he’s going to show me all his pictures—­and his engravings—­and his wonderful orchids and things.  I’m to spend all the afternoon with him.  Isn’t it splendid!  I could never have hoped for such an opportunity.  And he’s so awfully nice—­so cultured and clever, you know—­”

“Really!” said Aunt Charlotte, drawing herself up.  “Well, you’re vastly honoured, Austin, I must say.  Mr St Aubyn is chary of his civilities.  It is very kind of him to ask you, I’m sure, but I think it’s rather a liberty all the same.”

“A liberty!” repeated Austin, aghast.

“He has never called on me,” returned Aunt Charlotte, statelily.  “If he had wished to cultivate our acquaintance, that would have been at least the usual thing to do.  However, of course I’ve no objection.  On Thursday, you say.  Well, now just give me your attention to something rather more important.  I intend to invite some people here to tea next week, and you may as well write the invitations for me now.”