He was holding his watch in his hand, and calculating seconds.
'We have let him paint my portrait without ever saying a word of money--and you have always behaved as though you meant to buy the "Genius Loci."' 'Well, so I do mean to buy it,' said Lord Findon, closing his watch with a sigh of satisfaction.
'You should have told him so, papa, and advanced him some money.' 'It is an excellent thing, my dear Eugenie, for a young man to be kept on tenterhooks.

Otherwise they soon get above themselves.' 'You have driven him into debt, papa.' 'What on earth do you mean ?' 'I have been questioning Mr.Cuningham.He doesn't know, but he _thinks_ Mr.Watson has been lending him money.' 'Artists are always so good to one another,' said Lord Findon, complacently.

'Nice fellow, Watson--but quite mad.' 'Papa, you are incorrigible.

I tell you he has been in great straits.
He has not been able to buy a winter overcoat, and Mr.Cuningham suspects he has often not had enough to eat.

He does illustration-work the greater part of the night--_et cetera_.' 'The way you pile on the agony, my dear!' said Lord Findon, rising.
'What I see you want is that I should write the check, and then go with you to call on the young man ?' 'Precisely!' said Eugenie, nodding.
Lord Findon looked at her.
'And that you suppose is your own idea ?' Eugenie waited--interrogatively.
'Do you know why I have never said a word to the young man about money ?' 'Because you forgot it,' said Eugenie, smiling.
'Not in the least,' said Lord Findon, flushing like a school-boy found out; 'I wanted my little sensation at the end.' 'My very epicurean papa!' said Eugenie, caressing him.