The Triumph of Jill Part 4

"Yes," replied Jill, feeling in her pocket. "I have her card. She was very gracious, and wished me to apply to her if I wanted money, hinting delicately at a doctor's fee, or something of the sort. I took her card out of curiosity, and walked into the nearest chemists', having the satisfaction of hearing her say to someone as I went, that she would see that I had compensation, poor girl! so stupid to have run right in front of her wheel."

"Prig!" muttered St. John.

"There's the card. You can throw it into the fire when you've done with it; I shall make no application."

He took it from her, glanced at it, and then gave vent to an involuntary exclamation of surprise. Jill looked up.

"You know the name?" she questioned.

"Rather!"

"A friend of yours?"

"Well--yes, I suppose so; she's a sort of connection."

Jill compressed her mouth, and stared fixedly at the fire; the situation was a little awkward.

"Being a relation of yours," she began in a slightly strained voice, "I'm sorry that I said what I did, but--well, you yourself, called her a prig, didn't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, and then he tore the card in two, angrily, and threw it into the flames.

"She couldn't, perhaps, have avoided the accident," Jill went on, "and she meant to kind, but she doesn't possess much tact."

"No," he agreed, "she doesn't. You must allow me to apologise for her.

After all there is some slight excuse for her gaucherie; she has been spoilt with a superabundance of this world's goods--quarter of a million of money is rather inclined to blunt the finer sensibilities."

"Quarter of a million!" gasped Jill. "Oh, dear me, I would like the chance of having my finer sensibilities blunted."

She laughed a little, but St. John was looking so gloomy that her mirth died away almost as soon as it had risen.

"Come!" she said, jumping up. "I will get you some water to wash your hands, and then we must go to work; it will never do to waste a whole morning like this."

He allowed her to go without hindrance, and when quite alone stood glaring at the charred embers of Miss Bolton's card.

"Just like Evie," he soliloquised. "That girl is always making a blithering idiot of herself, though I--H'm! I wonder what little Miss Erskine would say if she knew that I--"

He broke off abruptly and kicked savagely at an inoffensive lump of coal lying near to his boot left there by his own carelessness when making the fire.

"Oh, hang it!" he mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "what a confounded a.s.s I am."

"The water and soap are on the table," said Jill's voice at his elbow, such a small friendly voice, so very different from her former tone--the tone that was always a.s.sociated in his mind in connection with her--that he turned and faced her involuntarily, looking down at her with a smile.

"It is awfully good of you to trouble," he said. "I am afraid that I and my relations are putting you to a lot of bother."

"By no means," she answered, with a return to her former distance of voice and manner. "When a student of mine soils his hands in my service, the least I can do is to provide him with the means of cleansing them again."

St. John immediately retreated within himself, and taking the towel which she offered him, walked over to the table. When he had finished his ablutions, Miss Erskine removed the basin, while he took his former seat and quietly resumed work. The rest of the time pa.s.sed pretty well in silence, Miss Erskine's manner continuing as distant as ever. In all likelihood she would have bowed him out as before, had he not boldly put hesitation on one side, and marching straight up to her held out his hand. Jill, in unwilling acquiescence, placed hers in it.

"You mustn't treat me altogether as a stranger," he said. "Because we are teacher and pupil it doesn't follow that we need be enemies also.

Good morning, Miss Erskine; believe me, I am sincerely sorry for the injury that you have received."

Jill smiled and a gleam of mischief shone in her eyes.

"I seem to have received so many this morning that I hardly know which you mean," she said. "Do you allude to the hurt wrist or the very ungenerous manner in which you greeted me on my return?"

He coloured a little. Then he laughed.

"I was rather wild," he admitted. "Saint John with my face, twentieth century get-up, and a nimbus, was a bit too much."

"Indeed! I thought it rather clever," Jill modestly remarked.

"Clever, yes; so it was, no doubt. If it hadn't been so clever, it wouldn't have been so annoying."

"It has gone!" she cried, glancing at the table, though she knew already that it was not there. "You are not taking it with you?"

"Yes," he answered coolly, "I am."

"But, Mr St. John," she remonstrated, "I think that I have some claim to my own work."

"But, Miss Erskine," he retorted, "I think that I have some claim to my own portrait."

"Well, never mind," said Jill. "I can sketch it again if I want to."

"Yes," he replied, "but I don't think you will."

"Perhaps not. I am not fond of wasting my time; it is too precious."

St. John laughed and took up his hat.

"Good-bye again," he said. "I hope by the next time I come that the hand will be quite well."

"Thank you," she answered. "I hope it will."

He had not been gone half an hour when a most unusual thing occurred-- unusual, that is, for number 144. It was, indeed, an unprecedented event within the memory of the present owners of the establishment, and quite a shock to the slovenly Isobel who opened the door to the very peremptory knock. It was, in short, a florist's messenger with a large and magnificent basket of hot-house flowers for Miss Erskine. Not being the locality for such dainty gifts, it was not surprising that, to quote Isobel verbatim, it struck her all of a heap. She carried the basket up to the studio, another unusual event; on the very rare occasions when a parcel arrived for Miss Erskine it was left on the dirty hall table until she descended in quest of it. But Isobel's femininity detected sentiment amid the fragrant scent of the delicate blossoms, and the vulgar side of her nature was all on the alert. No doubt she expected Miss Erskine to be equally excited and curious with herself, but Miss Erskine was not in the habit of gratifying other people at her own expense. She was standing in front of her easel roughly sketching with a piece of charcoal when Isobel bounced into the room, and only paused in her occupation to give a very casual glance at the flowers, and to evince some surprise at sight of them, and still more at having them brought up.

"One would think that I was a first floor lodger," she exclaimed, turning back to her work again, "instead of merely the attics. You'll be charging me for attendance soon, Isobel, if it goes on at this rate.

Put it down on the table, please."

Isobel looked distinctly disappointed.

"But you ain't looked at 'em yet," she said.

"I've seen flowers before," Jill answered.

"They look very pretty and smell nice; but they'll soon die in this turpentine atmosphere."

"Then you can keep the barskit," giggled the other. "I expect 'e thought o' that; 'e aint so green as I took 'im to be. Fancy you 'avin'

a young man, Miss Herskine!"