"You don't know how my uncle's affairs stand, I suppose?" Shiel asked
somewhat nervously.
"Yes," John Martin said, "I do. May I ask if you have any private
means at all--or are you solely dependent on what you earn? By the
way, what is your calling?"
"I am an artist," Shiel said. "No, I've nothing beyond what my uncle
was good enough to allow me."
"An artist!" John Martin murmured, "how like Dick! Have you
entertained the idea of inheriting a fortune? Have you any reason to
suppose that your uncle was well off and had made you his heir!"
"I gathered so, sir, from the manner in which he lived and his
attitude towards me."
"Well! we won't talk it over now--leave it till after the funeral. Are
you bent on continuing painting? There is very little remuneration in
it, is there?"
"Not much," Shiel answered gloomily, "but I shouldn't care to give it
up--unless of course it is absolutely necessary for me to do so."
"Being an artist you wouldn't be much good in business."
"None!"
"At all events, you are candid. Well! I don't see any good in our
dallying here--I had best go back with you to Sydenham. I've got a
letter to write first, but I shan't be long."
He was long enough, however, for Shiel to have another chat with
Gladys. "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked him. "I had such a queer
one last night, about trees and flowers; and, oddly enough, my father
also dreamed of trees and flowers, and of the very same ones too.
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