and worst work in his studio.’
Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of mind. He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of the Thames through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking of Torpenhow’s advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study of the faces flocking past. Some had death written on their features, and Dick marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for the most part, were alight with love; others were merely drawn and lined with work; but there was something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The poor at least should suffer that he might learn, and the rich should pay for the output of his learning. Thus his credit in the world and his cash balance at the bank would be increased. So much the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take toll of the ills of others.
The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide between the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, ‘Ah, get away, you beast!’ and a shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick’s face the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He was blinded for the moment, then spun round and found himself face to face with – Maisie.
There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a woman, but they had not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the firmly modelled mouth and chin; and, that all should be as it was of old, she wore a closely fitting gray dress.
Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own command, Dick, advancing, said ‘Halloo!’ after the manner of schoolboys, and Maisie answered, ‘Oh, Dick, is that you?’ Then, against his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie’s face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely – ‘What has happened to Amomma?’
‘He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. Isn’t it funny?’
‘Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?’
‘Ye – es. No. This. Where have you come from?’
‘Over there,’ He pointed eastward through the fog. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, I’m in the north, – the black north, across all the Park. I am very busy.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I paint a great deal. That’s all I have to do.’
‘Why, what’s happened? You had three hundred a year.’
‘I have that still. I am painting; that’s all.’
‘Are you alone, then?’
‘There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk so fast, Dick; you’re out of step.’
‘Then you noticed it too?’
‘Of course I did. You’re always out of step.’
‘So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with the painting?’
‘Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton’s inSt. John’s Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted, – I mean I went to the National, – and now I’m working under Kami.’
‘But Kami is in Paris surely?’
‘No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I’m a householder.’
‘Do you sell much?’
‘Now and again, but not often. There is my ‘bus. I must take it or lose half an hour. Good-bye, Dick.’
‘Good-bye, Maisie. Won’t you tell me where you live? I must see you again; and perhaps I could help you. I – I paint a little myself.’
‘I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is no working light. I walk from the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion. But of course I shall see you again.’ She stepped into the omnibus and was swallowed up by the fog.
‘Well – I – am – damned!’ exclaimed Dick, and returned to the chambers.
Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the studio door, repeating the phrase with an awful gravity.
‘You’ll be more damned when I’m done with you,’ said the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow’s shoulder and waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. ‘Dick, it is of common report that you are suffering from swelled head.’
‘Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.’
‘Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow refuses from false delicacy. I’ve been overhauling the pot-boilers in your studio. They are simply disgraceful.’
‘Oho! that’s it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you’re wrong. You can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I’m going to bed.’
‘H’m! h’m! h’m! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here’s the peroration: “For work done without conviction, for power wasted on trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public – ” ‘That’s “His Last Shot,” second edition. Go on.’
‘ – “public, there remains but one end, – the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of danger.”’
‘Wow – wow – wow – wow – wow!’ said Dick, profanely. ‘It’s a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but it’s quite true. And yet,’ – he sprang to his feet and snatched at the manuscript, – ‘you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you’re sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public’s bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents. You’re a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he’s seen. You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or – mine own sweet self. And you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I’d caricature you in four papers!’
The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.
‘As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small – so!’ The manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. ‘Go home, Nilghai,’ said Dick; ‘go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till to-morrow.’
‘Why, it isn’t seven yet!’ said Torpenhow, with amazement.
‘It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,’ said Dick, backing to the studio door. ‘I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan’t want any dinner.’
The door shut and was locked.
‘What
