The stained-glass man stooped to sniff a rosebush. "Yes," he said;"it suits me very well. I get lots of time for my art work.""That must be very interesting," said Shelton, whose glance was roving for Antonia; "I never managed to begin a hobby.""Never had a hobby!" said the stained-glass man, brushing back his hair (he was walking with no hat); "why, what the deuce d' you do?"Shelton could not answer; the idea had never troubled him.
"I really don't know," he said, embarrassed; "there's always something going on, as far as I can see."The stained-glass man placed his hands within his pockets, and his bright glance swept over his companion.
"A fellow must have a hobby to give him an interest in life," he said.
"An interest in life?" repeated Shelton grimly; "life itself is good enough for me.""Oh!" replied the stained-glass man, as though he disapproved of regarding life itself as interesting.
"That's all very well, but you want something more than that. Why don't you take up woodcarving?""Wood-carving?"
"The moment I get fagged with office papers and that sort of thing Itake up my wood-carving; good as a game of hockey.""I have n't the enthusiasm."
The eyebrows of the stained-glass man twitched; he twisted his moustache.
"You 'll find not having a hobby does n't pay," he said; "you 'll get old, then where 'll you be?"It came as a surprise that he should use the words "it does n't pay,"for he had a kind of partially enamelled look, like that modern jewellery which really seems unconscious of its market value.
"You've given up the Bar? Don't you get awfully bored having nothing to do?" pursued the stained-glass man, stopping before an ancient sundial.
Shelton felt a delicacy, as a man naturally would, in explaining that being in love was in itself enough to do. To do nothing is unworthy of a man! But he had never felt as yet the want of any occupation.
His silence in no way disconcerted his acquaintance.
"That's a nice old article of virtue," he said, pointing with his chin; and, walking round the sundial, he made its acquaintance from the other side. Its grey profile cast a thin and shortening shadow on the turf; tongues of moss were licking at its sides; the daisies clustered thick around its base; it had acquired a look of growing from the soil. "I should like to get hold of that," the stained-glass man remarked; "I don't know when I 've seen a better specimen,"and he walked round it once again.
His eyebrows were still ironically arched, but below them his eyes were almost calculating, and below them, again, his mouth had opened just a little. A person with a keener eye would have said his face looked greedy, and even Shelton was surprised, as though he had read in the Spectator a confession of commercialism.
"You could n't uproot a thing like that," he said; "it would lose all its charm."His companion turned impatiently, and his countenance looked wonderfully genuine.
"Couldn't I?" he said. "By Jove! I thought so. 1690! The best period." He ran his forger round the sundial's edge. "Splendid line-clean as the day they made it. You don't seem to care much about that sort of thing"; and once again, as though accustomed to the indifference of Vandals, his face regained its mask.
They strolled on towards the kitchen gardens, Shelton still busy searching every patch of shade. He wanted to say "Can't stop," and hurry off; but there was about the stained-glass man a something that, while stinging Shelton's feelings, made the showing of them quite impossible. "Feelings!" that person seemed to say; "all very well, but you want more than that. Why not take up wood-carving?
. . . . Feelings! I was born in England, and have been at Cambridge.""Are you staying long?" he asked Shelton. "I go on to Halidome's to-morrow; suppose I sha'n't see you there? Good, chap, old Halidome! Collection of etchings very fine!""No; I 'm staying on," said Shelton.
"Ah!" said the stained-glass man, "charming people, the Dennants!"Shelton, reddening slowly, turned his head away; he picked a gooseberry, and muttered, "Yes.""The eldest girl especially; no nonsense about her. I thought she was a particularly nice girl."Shelton heard this praise of Antonia with an odd sensation; it gave him the reverse of pleasure, as though the words had cast new light upon her. He grunted hastily, "I suppose you know that we 're engaged?""Really!" said the stained-glass man, and again his bright, clear, iron-committal glance swept over Shelton--"really! I didn't know.
Congratulate you!"
It was as if he said: "You're a man of taste; I should say she would go well in almost any drawing-room!""Thanks," said Shelton; "there she' is. If you'll excuse me, I want to speak to her."
