Mackenzie had
inquired.
"Am I dust to be trampled beneath her feet? Am I a dog that she can't
throw me a word?" Her arms were stretched out, and she was making this
inquiry as to her own canine qualities as I re-entered the room, and
remembered that Ethel had never once addressed a single word to Mrs.
Mackenzie in the course of her visit.
I affected not to perceive the incident, and presently said that I wanted
to speak to Clive in his studio. Knowing that I had brought my friend one
or two commissions for drawings, Mrs. Mackenzie was civil to me, and did
not object to our colloquies.
"Will you come too, and smoke a pipe, father?" says Clive.
"Of course your father intends to stay to dinner?" says the Campaigner,
with a scornful toss of her head. Clive groaned out as we were on the
stair, "that he could not bear this much longer, by heavens he could
not."
"Give the Colonel his pipe, Clive," said I. "Now, sir, down with you in
the sitter's chair, and smoke the sweetest cheroot you ever smoked in
your life! My dear, dear old Clive! you need not bear with the Campaigner
any longer; you may go to bed without this nightmare to-night if you
like; you may have your father back under your roof again.
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