ngshaw.

Lucas was unused to the subtleties of diplomacy, but it seemed to him an
evident case for tact.

"What do you think about it yourself?" he began cautiously.

"I think," replied the W.S., "that you'd be better back in England."

His eye again spoke for him, and this time it said, "There is no further
use in attempting to deceive me."

The artist took the hint. His strong, pleasant face became a mirror
reflecting the very truth; his blue eyes were filled with a light
brighter even than the inspiration of art; his mellow voice burst out
abruptly--

"I love Jean!"

The effect was rather like discharging a cannon and bringing down a
scrap of plaster.

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "You mean my daughter?"

"I should think I do!"

"I merely asked for information, Mr. Vernon."

"Then I can guarantee your information!" Lucas smiled frankly, but he
might as well have smiled at the hat-rack in the hall. "I'm quite aware
you don't think me good enough for her--and I agree with you. But if it
comes to that, who is? You may say my name's neither Turner nor Rubens;
you may think it's like my dashed impudence asking you to let me make a
short cut to heaven across your hearth--"

It was at this point that Mr. Walkingshaw discharged his ordnance.

"What is your income?" he inquired coldly.

His aim was more accurate. The artist descended to earth with a thud.

"My _income_?" he gasped.

"Your income," repeated the bombardier.

The artist ran his fingers convulsively through his hair.

"Now, what the deuce should I put it at?"

"An approximately correct figure," suggested Mr. Walkingshaw.

"To tell you the truth, I haven't the least idea."

"A thousand?"

"Oh, good God, no!"

"A hundred?"

"Oh, more than that."

"Can't you suggest a figure yourself?"

"Well, let's say that in a good year I make anything up to three or four
hundred pounds, and in a bad year anything down to fifty or sixty."

"We'll say that if you like. Do you expect any legacies to fall in to
you--anything of that kind?"

"Unfortunately I don't."

Mr. Walkingshaw regarded him with contemptuous severity.

"Then you propose to marry my daughter on maybe fifty or sixty pounds a
year?"

"I told you that was in a bad year," protested the artist.

"Thank you, but I don't want any of your fluctuating incomes for my
girl. I don't care if you earned ten thousand pounds this year. So
long as you can't guarantee that to last,