After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. He caught the elderly dame’s eye, throwing her a desperate message. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. It was among artistic people.
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