“You see, ladies, I am an artist--a painter of pictures. I work, as it were, in the past and in the future. I feel that I do not belong to the present, and these little details I know I ought to leave to those who understand how to deal with them. I told the mater so. But whether we are able to help Mr. Sartwell or not, you must allow me to thank you for a very charming afternoon. My studio is in Chelsea. It is said to be the finest in London; but of course I care nothing about that, to me it is merely my workshop. But there are relaxations even in artistic life, and every Tuesday afternoon from three o’clock till five I am at home to my friends. I expect the mater to receive my guests, and you must promise to come, Mrs. Sartwell, will you not? I will send you cards, and you will be sure to meet some nice people. May I count on you? I know the mater will be pleased.” “I shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” said Mrs. Sartwell, softening under the genial influence of the young man. “And you, too, Miss Sartwell?” Edna looked somewhat dubiously at her stepmother. “You will bring Miss Sartwell with you, will you not?” persisted the young man. “I am always glad to do anything to add to Edna’s pleasure,” said Mrs. Sartwell, a trifle less cordially; “but it must be as her father says.” “Then you will use your influence with him, Miss Sartwell, won’t you, and get him to consent. I am sure he will not refuse if you care to come.” “I should like very much to go,” said Edna. “Then we will look on it as settled.” When Barney stepped into his waiting hansom, he said to himself, “Ah, Barney, my boy, you light on your feet as usual. What a lovely girl! and a mind of her own, too, if she is so shy. Who would ever have suspected grim old Sartwell of having such a pretty daughter! I must persuade the mater to come off that particular hobbyhorse of hers, for it is easy to see the girl doesn’t want anyone to interfere with her father. If I can bring the mater around and get the cheque too, I’m a diplomatist.” CHAPTER VI. From Wimbledon to Surbiton is comparatively but a step. An enterprising train, bent on accomplishing the feat, can do the distance in seven or eight minutes, and even the slowest of “locals” takes but twelve. Barney was an energetic young man, and, where a cheque was concerned, knew the dangers of delay; so he resolved, being in the neighbourhood, to go to Surbiton, see his mother, and settle the business. The young man often reassured himself by saying inwardly that he was no fool, and the few minutes he had to meditate on the situation, as he paced up and down No. 3 platform waiting for the train, enabled him to formulate a course of action.