Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 22

"Well--partly. Yes, partly. But I'm afraid I was thinking how well it is done." His face grew dreamy. "To think that paint and canvas and a few careless strokes--"

"He worked putty hard," broke in Uncle William. Sergia's hand on his arm stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder.

But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with a cordial nod. "Of course--infinite patience. And then a thing like that!" he lifted his hand toward it slowly. It was a kind of courteous salute--the obeisance due to royalty.

Uncle William watched it a little grudgingly. "They're putty good rocks," he said--"without paint."

The Frenchman faced him. "Don't I know?" He checked himself. "I've not mentioned it to you, but I was born and brought up on those rocks."

"You was!" Uncle William confronted him.

The stranger nodded, smiling affably. His long nose was reminiscent.

"I've played there many a time."

Sergia's face watched him hopefully.

Uncle William's had grown a little stern. He bent toward the stranger.

"I don't think I jest caught your name," he said slowly.

"My name is Curie," said the man, politely--"Benjamin F. Curie." He extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Uncle William with a deep bow.

Uncle William pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He drew down the spectacles from his tufts and examined it carefully. Then he bent and snapped it in his fingers. "I don't know no such--"

A hand was laid lightly on his arm. "Come, we must look at the other pictures. It is almost time to go."

The crowd had thinned a little and they walked through it easily, three abreast. But Uncle William had moved to the other side of the girl, as far away from the Frenchman as he could get. Now and then he cast a glance of disapproval at the tall, dipping figure as it bent to the girl or lifted itself to gaze at some picture. There was distrust in Uncle William's glance, mingled with vague disturbance. When they paused again, he moved around in front of the man. "The' 's suthin' kind o'

familiar about your face--" he began.

Sergia's hand was again on his arm.

He patted it lightly. "Don't you worry a mite, Sergia. I ain't goin' to say anything rash. But it does seem to me as if I've seen Mr. Curie's face somewheres or other. 'T ain't a face you're liable to forget."

The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. "It is possible we have met.

You have traveled?"

"A leetle," admitted Uncle William.

Sergia's face relaxed. She moved away for a minute.

The Frenchman nodded. "We have doubtless met; but one forgets--" He lifted his eyegla.s.ses and surveyed Uncle William's round, good face. "It doesn't seem as if I could have forgotten yours," he said thoughtfully.

"And yet I don't place it."

Sergia had returned. "He has been to St. Petersburg," she suggested.

The Frenchman's look cleared. "Ah--! It must have been there. It is a privilege to have met you again, sir." He held out his long, slim hand.

"I wish you would come and see me. You have my address." He motioned to the card.

Uncle William looked down at it. "I'm startin' for home to-morrow," he said dryly.

"Indeed! And your home is--"

Sergia interposed a graceful hand. "Good-night, M. Curie. _You_ will come and see _me_. Mama would be glad I have found you again."

He looked down at her mistily. His gaze lingered on her face. "I shall come, my child," he said gallantly, almost tenderly. "I shall come many times."

"Yes, I shall look for you. Be sure." She took Uncle William's arm and moved away to the staircase.

Uncle William's mouth opened and closed once or twice with a little puff. When they reached the foot of the stairs he broke out. "He says he's a Curie." He flipped the card in his hand. "I've known Arichat, man and boy, for sixty year. The' wa'n't never any Curies there."

She looked up at him a little perplexed. "Couldn't you have forgotten?"

Uncle William shook his head. "I wish 't I had. You set a good deal o'

store by him, I can see. But I ain't likely to forget anybody that's been brought up there. The' _was_ suthin' kind o' familiar about him, too." He said it almost irascibly.

The girl sighed softly. "Well, he may have been romancing. Frenchmen do--at times--"

"I call it lying," snorted Uncle William.

"Yes, yes." She patted his arm. "But can't you understand how you would feel if you saw something beautiful--some place that made you feel the way you used to feel when you were a child? You might think for a moment that you had really been there, and say it--without meaning to tell a lie. That's what I meant."

Uncle William looked down at her admiringly. "You do put that mighty nice, don't you? You 'most make me believe I could do it, and I guess mebbe I could. But Andy couldn't," he added, with conviction.

The girl followed her thought. "And what does it matter--if he buys the pictures."

"Well, it matters some," said Uncle William, slowly. "I dunno 's I want a liar, not a real liar, ownin' a picter o' my house. But if he jest romances, mebbe I could stand it. It does seem different somehow."

When they parted, she looked at him a little wistfully. "I should like to see him again," she said, waiting.

"Like enough," said Uncle William, gently--"like enough. But I reckon he don't need you just now." He held her hand, looking down at her kindly.

"_I_ could see _him_," she suggested.

"How's that?"

"I could come down to the boat. I would be careful not to let him see me."

Uncle William considered it. "Well, I dunno 's that would do any harm--if you're sure you could keep out o' the way."

"Yes," eagerly.

"We're goin' by the Halifax boat," said Uncle William. "I can make better 'rangements that way. I know the captain."

"Yes?" It was a question.

"Well, I guess 't you can come. Good night, my dear." He bent and kissed her gravely.

Her eyes followed the tall figure till it loomed away in the dark.