“Foster—where’s Foster?”

“Mr Sydney has him.”

“Well—send that fellow in the moment he comes.”

“Very good, sir.”

Everitt fell to his painting again, but without success. He was a man who had a very strong feeling about a promise, and he hated the idea of failing to fulfil it. It began, indeed, very soon to annoy him seriously. He flung down his brushes, and caught up his hat to go in search of the delinquent, when Hill, the porter, once more appeared at the door, with a significant grin on his face, at sight of which Everitt abruptly stopped and whistled.

“Oh!” he remarked the next moment.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bad?”

“Dead drunk, sir.”

“Pack off the brute,” said Everitt in a disgusted voice.

He came back and stood before his easel with his hands thrust into his pockets; then seized a brush and began filling in a bit of foreground. Presently he left his work again, and resumed his pacing.

“This won’t do; I shan’t get a decent bit of work done this morning, if I don’t settle the matter one way or other. Now, what on earth’s to be done? Write a note—present my compliments, model drunk, sorry to disappoint, and so on? Go myself, and apologise? No; that’s a little too strong. What a fool I was to get drawn into this business! If Hill weren’t wanted, I’d dress him up and send him—that wouldn’t be half a bad plan; or if I could hit upon some one as accommodating as the duke’s daughter,” he added musingly, standing before the canvas. The next minute an odd, almost eager look crept into his eyes. He began to smile, shook his head impatiently, smiled again, overmastered by the fancy, whatever it was—suddenly turned away. “Yes, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed aloud.

Whatever it was to which Everitt had made up his mind—and, as has been already hinted, he was at times the victim of freaks which laid his character open to the charge of inconsistency—he lost no time in carrying it out. 

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