Nay, more; he seemed
to wish, with all his heart, to leave the young man's presence, and
yet to be glued to the spot, in spite of himself, by some strange
compulsion.
It was with a dreamy, far-away tone in his voice that the Colonel
uttered those seemingly simple words, "And is your brother here,
too, this afternoon, Mr. Waring?"
"Yes, he's somewhere about," Guy answered carelessly. "He'll turn
up by-and-by, no doubt. He's pretty sure to find out, sooner or
later, Miss Clifford's here, and then he'll come round this way to
speak to her."
For some time they stood talking in a little group by the bench,
Colonel Kelmscott meanwhile thawing by degrees and growing gradually
interested in what Guy had to say, while Elma looked on with a
devouring curiosity.
"Your brother's a painter, you say," the Colonel murmured once
under that heavy white moustache of his; "yes, I think I remember.
A rising painter. Had a capital landscape in the Grosvenor last
year, I recollect, and another in the Academy this spring, if
I don't mistake--skied--skied, unfairly; yet a very pretty thing,
too; 'At the Home of the Curlews.'"
"He's painting a sweet one now," Elma put in quickly, "down here,
close by, in Chetwood Forest.
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