"I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was
railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes,
if you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you--on your
own horse, eh?"

"That is asking much. Where?"

"Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot--if this
damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring, or"
--here he laughed--"in Paris. I am modest, you see."

"As you will."

Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for
going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be
presented at St. James's, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club.
Certainly he had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo;
but that would only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial.

His uncle's face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good
fortune. He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure.
He would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject--that legend
of the ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in
his mind for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager.

"I've a big subject brewing," he said; "better than the Monmouth, though
it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy,
devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most
fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the
father--and the uncle!"