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“Oh, here’s the dragon,” said Philip, who had been rummaging in the property box. “He’s got a fiery tail.”

“They were quite the go in pantomimes a few years ago,” said Mr. Clinton, yawning. “My uncle had two or three–bigger than that, of course.”

Philip saw that his friend was not interested in amateur property-making, and changed the subject.

“What have you been doing this morning?” said he.

“I drove here with my father, who had got to pass your gates. I say, there’s splendid shooting on the marsh now. I want you to come out with me, and we’ll pot a wild duck or two.”

“I’ve no gun,” said Philip, and to soften the statement added, “there’s no one here to go out with.”

“I’ll go out with you. And I say, we could just catch the train back to the town, and if you’ll come and lunch with us, we’ll go out a bit this afternoon and look round. But you must get a gun.”

“I should like some fresh air,” said Philip, “and as you’ve come over for me–“

I knew the appealing tone in his voice was for my ears, for my face had fallen.

“Could I be going on with it?” I asked, nodding towards the forest scene.

“Oh dear no! I’ll go at it again to-night. It ought all to be painted by candlelight by rights. I’m not going to desert my post,” he added.

“I hope not,” said I as good-humouredly as I could; but dismay was in my heart.

CHAPTER VII.

A QUARREL–BOBBY IS WILLING–EXIT PHILIP.

Philip came back by an evening train, and when he had had something to eat he came up to the nursery to go on with the scene. We had got everything ready for him, and he worked for about half-an-hour. But he was so sleepy, with cold air and exercise, that he did not paint well, and then he got impatient, and threw it up–“till the morning.”

In the morning he set to work, talking all the time about wild duck and teal, and the price of guns; but by the time he had put last night’s blunders straight, the front door bell rang, and Mary announced “Mr. Clinton.”

Philip was closeted in his room with his new friend till twelve o’clock. Then they went out into the yard, and finally Mr. Clinton stayed to luncheon. But I held my peace, and made Alice hold hers. Mr. Clinton went away in the afternoon, but Philip got the plate-powder and wash-leather, and occupied himself in polishing the silver fittings of his dressing-case.

“I think you might do that another time, Philip,” said I; “you’ve not been half-an-hour at the properties to-day, and you could clean your bottles and things quite as well after the theatricals.”

“As it happens I just couldn’t,” said Philip; “I’ve made a bargain, and bargains won’t wait.”

Alice and I screamed in one breath, “You’re not going to give away the dressing-case!”–for it had been my father’s.

“I said a bargain” replied Philip, rubbing harder than ever; “you can’t get hold of a gun every day Without paying down hard cash.”

“I hate Mr. Clinton!” said Alice.

It was a very unfortunate speech, for it declared open war; and when this is done it cannot be undone. There is no taking back those sharp sayings which the family curse hangs on the tips of our tongues.

Philip and Alice exchanged them pretty freely. Philip called us selfish, inhospitable, and jealous. He said we grudged his enjoying himself in the holidays, when he had been working like a slave for us during the half. That we disliked his friend because he was his friend, and (not to omit the taunt of sex) that Clinton was too manly a fellow to please girls, etc., etc. In self-defence Alice was much more out-spoken about both Philip and Mr. Clinton than she had probably intended to be. That Philip began things hotly, and that his zeal cooled before they were accomplished–that his imperiousness laid him open to flattery, and the necessity of playing first-fiddle betrayed him into second-rate friendships, which were thrown after the discarded hobbies–that Mr. Clinton was ill-bred, and with that vulgarity of mind which would make him rather proud than ashamed of getting the best of a bargain with his friend–these things were not the less taunts because they were true.