Richard Furlong
Author: Thurston, Ernest Temple
Date: 2016-05-13T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net
Rights: Public Domain

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

>

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

RICHARD FURLONG, who may be known to you, if not from previous history, then perhaps by name alone, set forth to meet the world one early morning of an April day.

In an age when mechanical inventions shall have made one vast city of the country in which we live, when great schemes of transport have knit together in one hideous design the towns of England of which the vast Black Country is a pattern you may see today—this adventure of Dicky Furlong, starting out to meet the world in a train which toiled so slowly through the countryside, might well take upon itself all the golden light of Romance.

Destinies no doubt are set in motion, threads are fixed anew’ upon the empty loom whenever a child is born; hut not um.l that child has turned its face to the world, seeking to conquer and alone, not until then can you of a certainty’ discern the pattern it is set by Destiny to weave.

Dicky Furlong had run away from home and, at the age of eighteen, with twelve pounds in his pocket, was going up to London to learn the Mystery of Art. Whether this were the pattern Destiny intended him to weave the pages which follow are meant inevitably to show. For the mere determination of a man to follow a road but faintly indicative of the journey he will make or the destination he will reach. A thousand by-ways he must pass, refusing aga n and again the alluring hands that beckon him their way.

Wherefore the heart of a man must be steeled and strong or ever he reaches that journey’s end which in the first hot blood of youth he has set himself to come by. And all the history that follows here was the intent to trace the countless pit-falls and temptations in just one man’s journey to his heart’s desire.

The third-class carriage into which Dicky, with his small bundle, had stepped was empty. It was the first train in the day from Pershore to London, and he had been the only passenger waiting on the platform. A drowsy porter had closed the door behind him as the train began to move off, and then the roofs of the little town slipped away behind them. He changed his seat, sitting with his back to the engine, that he might see the very last of the place. It had certain recollections for him which he cherished. There on that very platform his mother had said good-bye to him when he went to school. But it was not his mother he thought of now.

Five miles away, over that belt of trees which lay beyond the town, his whole mind centred. The first parting between a boy and a girl, when the one sets forth into the great unknown and the other remains behind to pass the empty lanes where they have so often walked together, is as great a wrench as you well may know. Like the first sight of death, terrible to youth in its inevitable finality, so such a parting is the first fearful glimpse into the mysterious struggle of life.

Until that moment it may well have seemed that the matter were easy enough; but in one sudden moment, as with Dicky Furlong, a boy must learn that the whole world is his common enemy, and scarce one will lend a hand to bring him ease.

Long after the belt of trees had dropped away behind the rising land, he still looked in that direction where his Dorothy should be, and his eyes saw nothing of the woods and meadows through which they passed. But already his first battle had been fought and won. He had seized his independence and now was well set upon the high road, one traveller amongst the many thousands who are all stepping forth eagerly or wearily towards the city of their dreams.

That much accomplished, it .s not so hard a business to put the best foot foremost. As they steamed into the station of Evesham, Dicky brought his lips together.

“I wouldn’t turn back,” said he to himself, “not for a thousand pounds!” and then set to work, counting the change of silver and coppers in his pocket. Every penny was of value now. It seemed hard to realise that, with so great a fortune as twelve pounds in his possession; nevertheless, he counted it all to the last halfpenny, and was thus engaged when another passenger entered the carriage. Dicky put the money away, and the train moved on again towards London.

For a while the newcomer watched him, speculating, as no doubt you do when you have come to know the thousand interests in life, who such a boy might be, why he was counting his money, and what was his destination by that early train in the morning. It is always interesting to be curious; it is always curious to find out.

Presently he moved across the carriage and seated himself in the corner opposite to Dicky.

“Going to London?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Dicky.

“You’re making an early start.”

Still conscious of the authority of home from which he had just escaped, Dicky replied cautiously in the affirmative again.

The stranger smiled. He perceived the cautiousness, and his curiosity was gently roused. lie found most people interesting in a day’s journey, and this boy, with his quick grey eyes and his set lips, whose age, as he thought of it, he found most difficult to gauge,-was not the companion one would expect to meet on an early morning journey. He crossed his legs and settled himself more comfortably i, i his corner.

“Taking a holiday?” he continued presently. “No.”

“Going back to business?”

“I’m going to work.”

“What are you going to work at?”

Dicky paused and looked squarely into the stranger’s eyes.

“I’m going to be a painter—an artist,” he said at last. He said it proudly. There was the ring of confidence in his voice, the tone of enthusiasm, the sure note of youth—the note we must invariably laugh at when we have passed all hope of it ourselves.

His companion looked at his watch. There were three more hours yet before they came to London. He took a pipe from his pocket and filled it. When it was lit, he looked again at Dicky.

“How do you manage to do that?” he asked.

“I’m going to learn.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Are you going to make your living by it?”

“Yes.”

“Well—this is very interesting,” said the stranger, smiling again. “Do you come from Evesham?”

From the manner in which Dicky gave him the negative, he felt it wise to pursue that point no farther. In these little adventures of discovery one must be cautious and quick to take a tone of voice. From that moment he made no further effort to learn where Dicky lived.

“Is this just an intention of yours,” he asked presently, “or have you done a lot of painting already?”

“I’ve been doing it for two or three years,” replied Dicky, and wondered if that seemed a short or a long period to his companion. A momentary fear that it might suggest a sense of brevity made his cheeks hot. lie had a feeling that it might sound ridiculous, though it spelt an age to him. “I’ve been working pretty hard,” he added.

“I’m sure you have,” was the reply. “Have you exhibited anywhere?”

Dicky shook his head. The thought that he might seem very inexperienced was growing ‘n his mind, and with it grew the hotness in his cheeks. He felt an inclination to refuse an answer to the questions, but so quietly were they put that t appeared more ridiculous to refuse than to answer them. He waited with some misgiving for the next.

“Are you going to a school,” the stranger went on again, “or have you got a studio?”

“No, I can’t afford a studio,” he replied. “I can’t afford a school yet.”

“Then how are you going to live?”

“Well, I’ve got a little money—and-—and I’m going to sell my pictures.”

“Have you brought any with you?”

“Yes.”

“Might I see them?”

Dicky’s hand went quickly to his bundle. The work into which he had put all his heart was a better answer to these questions than anything he could say. It was not that he had an exalted opinion of them, but they were what he had done. They represented work accomplished, and the sense of justification accompanied them in his mind.

His companion looked on with inward amusement as he watched the sketches being brought forth from the bundle that could have contained but little else beside. Indeed, it occurred to him that no doubt Dicky had some portmanteau in the van. Ilis interest was rather in the fact that he had not let these treasures pass out of his keeping.

One by one, then, Dicky turned them face downwards until the whole collection was on his knees. So, having arranged them in the order of their value in his estimation, he brought forth one after another, keeping the best until the last.

One by one his companion took them, offering no criticism, only asking now and again for explanation of the subject—such questions as, “What time of the day was this done?” “How long did you take over this?” which Dicky answered with patient expectancy.

At last they had all passed from Dicky’s hands and, with eager eyes, he was watching his companion’s face as he sat n prolonged contemplation of the first picture. Presently he looked up.

“This is not all you’ve done, of course?” said he.

“Oh, no—I’ve left a lot at home— -a lot that weren’t any good. These are the ones I’m going to sell.”

The stranger put them all down on the seat beside him.

“Well,” said he after a pause, “what do you want me to say?”

“What you think.”

“Quite sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you won’t sell one of these sketches.”

Dicky became aware of a feeling of sickness.

“Why not?” he asked.

“They’re not what people want—no dealer would take them. They’re unfinished. I’m criticising them as sketches that would sell. These are only impressions.”

“But they are real impressions,” said Dicky. “They’re mine.”

“Do you know what a dealer would reply if you said that to him?”

“What?”

“He’d say: ‘Quite so—but who are you?’ Now what would your answer be to that?”

For a moment Dicky looked at his companion; then he leant forward and gathered up the sketches from the seat and in silence put them back once more into the bundle.

The stranger smiled again.

“That would be your answer,” said he. “Well, I suppose it’s about the best one you could make. And if he had any sense he’d say: ‘No\”—go and finish a picture for me—something after this style-’ and he’d show you a picture in a frame in his gallery, a picture, all excellent in completion, admirable in technique—probably far from an impression; worked upon so carefully that all real impression was gone right out of it. What ’ud you do then?” The heat came back again into Dicky’s cheeks. “I’d tell him,” said he hotly, “that he could buy those pictures from the place where he got them. Those are not the sort of pictures I’m going to paint.”

“What are your sort, then?”

“I’m going to paint meanings,” said Dicky suddenly, expressing himself in words for the first time in his life, and astonishing himself as much as his companion, “I’m going to paint meanings—I’m not going to paint things. Trees mean something— they aren’t just trees—mountains mean something— rivers mean something—everything has a meaning besides its mere colour and shape. That’s what I’m going to paint.”

“Ever heard of the Futurists?” asked the stranger.

“No,” said Dicky.

“Oh—then I suppose you are the new mind, eh?— the new mind coming out of nowhere to fling itself against the brick walls of tradition in London. It’s quite interesting. Very well, you pick up your sketches then—that’s your answer to our friend the dealer—you pick up your sketches, and you march out of the shop and you get a meal out of the money you’ve got in your pocket. Now I’m going to ask you an impertinent question.”

“You can be as impertinent as you like,” said Dicky who, in the heat of the moment, felt that all he had said was in the nature of impertinence. “I don’t mind what you ask.”

“Then how much is this sum of money upon which you propose to fall back when you can’t sell your sketches?”

“Just twelve pounds,” replied Dicky.

His companion frowned as he looked at him.

“Are you going to stay with friends?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’ll be alone in London?”

“Yes.”

“Know anybody?”

“I have a letter of Introduction.”

“To whom?”

“A man on a newspaper.”

The stranger knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

CHAPTER II

SO soon as this had come Dicky’s first meeting with the world and, as you might expect, the first feeling he had for it was contempt. For just as he believed his love for his Dorothy was unlike any man’s passion, so—if these were the ways of the world he had to face—he believed he was to conquer circumstance as no man had ever conquered it before.

Nearly every boy, setting forth to conquer, is a super-man. Of danger he knows nothing—of jeopardy no more. No hope is forlorn to him; no temptation strong enough to assail the high citadel of his resolve. He is out to win with a whole heart, and all compromise to victory is beneath the contemplation of his mind.

When, that very first morning of his adventure with life, Dicky was gently shown his own insignificance, there may have been misgiving in his mind, but in his heart he laughed at the discomfiture.

What did this stranger know of all he could do? All the sketches he had shown him were work of the past. He could do better even at that moment, and in a year-! He smiled when he thought to himself of the great work he would be doing then.

Accordingly when, at the station in London, his companion took a card from his pocket and handed it to him, saying, “When you’ve had a week of it alone in London, come and see me—I can put you up,” he took it and smiled with a gratitude he felt to be superior to the offer his friend had made.

“It’s very kind of you,” said he, “but I sha’n’t want that sort of help. I’ve got some money of my own.”

The stranger held out his hand.

“Well,” said he, “I shall be glad to see you get on. How old are you?”

“Eighteen—nearly nineteen.”

“Yes, it’s a good age to begin. I suppose you don’t see any difficulties in front of you?”

“I know I shall have to work.” said Dicky.

“And I expect you’re yearning to be at it.”

“Yes.”

“Splendid—splendid. Let me see you again some day. Good-bye.”

He turned away to the back of the train where the luggage was being flung out upon the platform and, gripping his bundle, Dicky walked out of the station into the streets of London.

He had seen the great city before, but only when driving through the streets to change from one station to another. Therefore, it was not all new to him; but that moment, as he stood alone upon the pavement, the countless vehicles passing, the countless people hurrying by, he found it very strange.

With the solemn silence of the hills still present in his ears, this eternal discord of sounds confused and bewildered, yet insensibly stirred his mind to a knowledge of the conflict which lay before him.

This indeed is the spirit of London—of all the great cities of the world. It ‘s not in them that the pure metal of new mind is to be discovered, but that there is the vast foundry where it is beaten Into shape. All day long and far into the night the huge hammers are rising and falling. These are the machines of man at labour on the material of God.

Even as Dicky stood there upon the kerbstone, with the small bundle of his belongings held tightly in his hand, he felt the faint oppression of a power mightier than himself; thrusting ‘t, however, away from him, he enquired his way to Fleet Street and set off there on foot.

In those days the offices of the Evening Herald were situated in antiquated premises in Whitefriars Street, and to these offices Dicky carried his letter of introduction. J. H. Marlow, to whom it was addressed, was one of the sub-editors on the paper, a position conveying power and importance to the mind of Dicky, who gave his name to the office boy with a cheerful confidence and took his seat in the untidy waiting room full of expectation.

Occasionally, as he sat there, men in their shirt sleeves passed by, thrusting their heads in at the door and going away again. For the first three or four times he half rose to his feet in anticipation, but not one of them was the man he expected. Three-quarters of an hour went by and he still waited. At last, catching sight of the office boy, he enquired if Mr. Marlow had been told.

“What name was it?” asked the boy.

“Furlong,” said Dicky.

With an effort of memory, the boy recalled the name and informed Dicky that he would not have much longer to wait. Yet still the minutes slipped away, while Dicky learnt yet another aspect of his own insignificance. At length, when his patience was almost exhausted and he had risen to his feet to go, a man, in shirt sleeves like the rest, looked hurriedly into the room.

“Your name Furlong?” said he.

“Yes,” said Dicky.

“Well, what is it?”

“I’ve got a letter of introduction here from Mr. Ilollom.”

He brought it out of his pocket, feeling that now at last the door was open and his foot upon the threshold. Marlow took ’.t hurriedly and extracted the letter from the envelope. Dicky watched him while he read it, finding a sense of disappointment in his mind that this man, who was a sub-editor and a friend of his friend, Mr. Hollom, was so insignificant both in manner and appearance. His face was pallid and thin. The eyes were small and close together, the head narrow, the forehead high but pinched. The very hastiness in all he said and did was not that of a busy man, but of one who likes to imagine himself pressed for time. In his short acquaintance with journalists, Dicky soon learnt that this was no uncommon pose. The hurry of going to press, the occasional stress of emergency, all tended to make them assume a constant attitude of half-bewildered concentration. At first, with Marlow he thought it to be genuine pressure, and the effect of it upon his mind was one of disappointment.

When he had read the letter, Marlow looked up.

“Is this Charles Hollom?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, yes. Then he was at Oriel with me. Well, he wants me to get you something to do. Illustrating. I suppose, or something like that; but we don’t have illustrations on the Herald for our stories, only fashion designs, and I don’t suppose you want to do anything like that.”

“I shouldn’t know anything about it,” replied Dicky.

“No, and, besides, we’ve got our regular staff for that. Have you done any illustration work?”

“No, but that’s what I think I could do.”

Well, I’d better introduce you to Channing. He’s on an illustrated magazine—The Feather. I shall be seeing him at lunch. You’d better come and have lunch with us. Have you got anything you can do till one o’clock?”

“I’ve got to find a room somewhere,” said Dicky; “just a bedroom—that’s all I want.”

“Well, you’d better try round about me. I’ve got rooms in Long Acre. You might find something there, in Drury Lane or Great Queen Street. Do you know where that is?”

“No.”

“If you go up into Fleet Street, anyone’ll tell you. It isn’t far. Then you come back here at one o’clock.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Dicky gratefully.

Marlow looked at him in surprise and then hurried out of the room.

In Fleet Street Dicky was told the way to the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and there, at the junction between Long Acre and Great Queen Street, he contemplated a notice in the window of an oil shop: Bedroom to let, for a single gentleman. After a moment’s hesitation he walked inside. In the dimly lit interior smelling fiercely of paint and paraffin and soap, he waited at the greasy counter until a woman emerged from a room at the back, concealed by piles of hardware, of brushes, brooms and mats.

She rubbed her hands across her eyes and said: “Yes?”

“You have a bedroom to let,” said Dicky.

‘‘Yes, but you can’t see it now,” she replied.

“Isn’t it to let, then?”

“Yes, but a gentleman only went out of it this morning, and I ’aven’t got it tidy yet.”

“How much is it a week?”

“Five shillings.”

“Does that include breakfast?”

She dragged a hair out of the corner of her mouth and glared at him.

“You want a lot, don’t yer?” said she. “Yer can ‘ave breakfast if yer like—but it’ll be another ’alf crown. Bacon and heggs you’ll get for that— and tea or coffee if yer prefer it.”

“Very well,” said Dicky; “that’ll do. I can leave my things here, and you can put them up in the room when it’s ready. I’ll be back this evening.”

“ ‘Ow long do you want the room for?”

“Oh, a good time, I should think.”

“Fortnight?”

“Longer than that, I expect.”

Her face changed. For a moment she wore a more agreeable expression.

“All right, then,” said she. “I’ll ’ave it nice and clean for yer by six o’clock. You get in this way through the shop. It’s a bit smelly—but you’ll get used to that if you’re goin’ to be ’ere a fortnight. Nobody minds it after a day or two. I like it myself.”

“I don’t suppose I shall mind it,” said Dicky. ‘‘Here are my things.”

“Is there another box coming?” she enquired. “No.”

“Well, if yer pay yer week in advance, I suppose that won’t matter. Very well, then—six o’clock. Like a cup o’ tea when yer come in?”

“Please, yes.”

And so Dicky found his first abode in London.

CHAPTER III

IN an upper room of a tavern at the gates of the Middle Temple, where one enters into Crown Office Row, Dicky was taken to lunch. It all gave the impression of being very grand to him, appeared to be very closely an acquaintance with Life. For at the large table where they had their meal there were many journalists who were well known in Whitefriars and had a reputation even in Fleet Street. It seemed to Dicky that he was dining with men well known to the world at large. Marlow was acquainted with them all and nodded to them. Some of them nodded to him first. But when it was he who led the salutation he generally told Dicky in an undertone who it was.

“See that chap?” said he, after one of these greetings which had formally been acknowledged to him. “That’s Shirlaw.”

“Who’s he?”

“Shirlaw—why, he’s the editor of The Feather. He’s written a book—a novel. I haven’t read it— it’s not up to much.”

“Thought you said Mr. Channing was the editor of The Feather?” said Dicky.

“No—Lord, no. Channing’s a sub. Shirlaw runs it for Leader. But he’s going to start one on his own. It’ll be huge. You may get a chance to do some work on that. That’s the best of Fleet Street —you’re in touch with every new thing that’s starting and can get there before anyone else.”

Dicky felt the world stretching out in front of him. Just a little work, and with what money he had he would be able to attend the night classes at a school. Just a little work—that was all; and there he was in Fleet Street at the same table with these men who could give it to him and set him fairly on that road to the city of his dreams.

He ate but little at that lunch. So much was being said that thrilled his mind to listen. Men spoke familiarly of the great politicians. One of them even alluded to his conversation with a member of the cabinet whose name Dicky had often heard, his father mention with grave respect.

“Who is that man?” he asked Marlow in a whisper.

“That fellow with the eyeglass?”

“Yes.”

“Oh—that’s Jevens—he’s a free lance—whites for any paper that’ll take his stuff. Says he makes as much as twenty pounds a week sometimes.”

“I didn’t know you could make as much as that,” said Dicky simply.

“Oh, Lord, yes! Shirlaw gets dose on twelve hundred a year certain.”

Dicky regarded the great man with awe. He was mopping up the gravy on his plate with a crust of bread which he held in his fingers, a thing Dicky had wanted to do with a fork all his life until constant forbiddance of it had made him regard it in the light of bad manners.

“Is Mr. Shirlaw a gentleman?” he asked presently, and there was only this thought in his mind. It was the question of a schoolboy, but Marlow took it to be the enquiry of a snob.

“If you’re looking for gentlemen,” said he, “you’re wasting time in Fleet Street.” And he meant it to be a rebuke, but Dicky took it as the truth.

For some time after that he was silent, listening only to the discussions and schemes for the new magazine which Shirlaw was to run. He felt then that, he was in the tide of great enterprise. He did not know at that time how many such schemes had been discussed before; how one and all of them had tumbled to the ground.

Even those who entered most earnestly into the conversation forgot the failures that had gone before, the numberless ideas that had been raised for new magazines, new papers, and, for want of that magic power of finance, had smouldered out and been trodden into the dust.

“See that little chap next to Shirlaw,” said Marlow presently.

Dicky nodded.

“That’s Bentley—he’s finding the money for the new magazine—there’s a fellow he knows on the Stock Exchange—worth thousands. He’s going tc finance the whole business. I think I’m going to write some articles for them. I’ve got a splendid idea for a series—they could run one every month— about a couple of thousand words. They’d be able to pay five guineas an article. That ’ud make a nice little sixty a year more for me. They’d be jolly good, too, if they were illustrated. You might let me see some of your sketches, and then perhaps you could do them. They’d pay you for them all right.”

“How much?” asked Dicky, and he knew his heart was beating quicker.

“Oh, about a guinea each. There’d probably be two to each article.”

“That ’ud be twenty-five pounds a year,” said Dicky.

“Yes, I know; but it all counts. They wouldn’t take you much more than an hour each one.”

“Oh, I should take more than an hour over them,” replied Dicky with earnestness. “I should do them as well as I could.”

“Well, I’ll just tell you the sort of article it’s going to be. I’ve had this idea for some time, and I’ve just been waiting to plant them with a new magazine—the Herald’s not good enough.”

Forthwith, then, he described to Dicky his idea for a series of articles that every paper to which he had offered them had refused. And Dicky listened, leaving untouched the food on the plate before him. sometimes wondering how Marlow could eat and talk so much at the same time.

At last the men began to rise from the table, and Dicky was taken across the room to be introduced to Channing, whom Marlow a moment later led aside.

“Don’t put yourself out, old chap,” he said. “I haven’t seen any of his work. He looks as if he might do something. A chap I knew up at Oriel sent him with a letter of introduction. Has Shirlaw got the money for the new magazine?”

Channing shook his head.

“Don’t believe he has. Bentley told me this morning that the fellow on the Stock Exchange was not going to fork up.”

“Has he told Shirlaw?”

“Not yet—Shirlaw ’ud drop him like a hot spud if he knew—and Bentley’s trying to place those short stories of his with us. What’s the name of this kid?”

“Furlong. Comes from Gloucestershire, I think.”

“Well, I’ll take him over with me to the office. I think I’ve got something he can do.”

Full of expectancy, with this first glimpse of a radiant future shimmering before his eyes, Dicky followed Channing down to the office of The Feather. For half an hour he sat there, listening to the sub-editor’s schemes for supplementing the income he already received. There were stories he was writing for this paper—stories for that; a book he was going to do which some publishing house had promised to read -With the greatest consideration. A certain well-known author he had written to was on the point of letting him dramatise one of his books.

“He doesn’t know it,” said Channing, laughing, “but I wrote a stinging review of it in the Herald. It’s a rotten book, but it ought to make a good play. Of course, if I’d known he was going to let me dramatise it, I shouldn’t have written it like that. But these authors are conceited bounders—they want taking down a bit.”

And through all this, ready enough to listen, Dicky felt that he was in the presence of a man touching the fringe of fame. With one so little versed in the ways of Fleet Street, this was an opportunity for egotism which Channing could not deny himself. The more he saw the impression he was making on Dicky’s ready mind, the higher rose the flights of his imagination as he related all the things he was going to do, until it almost seemed to him, as he enumerated them, that there really was a chance of some of them being done.

“Of course I can help you a good deal,” said he presently. “You won’t find Marlow much good, but I can put quite a few things in your way. There are all my stories. As soon as I place them I can suggest you to the editor for the illustrations.”

Dicky felt that this world of Fleet Street was filled with generous men. In Marlow’s defence, he told Channing how he had been promised the illustration of his articles.

Channing laughed.

“I Enow those old articles,” he said. “He tried to get us to take ’em here. He’ll never place ’em. He’s all right as a sub-editor, but he couldn’t do anything original for the life of him. Don’t say I said that, but everybody knows it except him.”

For one moment Dicky’s heart fell. But in the first instance he had thought little of Marlow. He was not surprised that this opinion was held of him. His heart rose again immediately at the thought of all the work that Channing could give him to do.

“I w ant,” said he presently, “I want to make about a hundred a year—that’ll keep me all right, and I shall be able to attend night classes at one of the art schools. Do you think I should ever be able to do that?”

Channing laughed again, and, still smiling, he pulled out a wash drawing from under a heap of papers on his desk. He handed it to Dicky.

“What do you think of that?” he asked.

Dicky held it for a moment in his hand, then he laid it down.

“Is it an illustration on your magazine?” he enquired.

“Yes. Say what you think.”

“Well, I suppose he did in a hurry,” said Dicky presently. “It—it doesn’t mean anything.”

“How doesn’t mean anything?”

“Well, those trees—they’re only lines and outlines. There’s no air in it—those people might just as well be in a room—they aren’t out of doors.” Frankly, Channing thought he was talking nonsense, and, from the point of view of illustrated journalism, undoubtedly he was.

“The figures are all right,” said Channing. “I don’t say it’s a picture, but it’s the sort of thing we want. Anyhow, that chap makes his five hundred a year—and, if he worked a bit harder, he could make more. Do you think you could do as good as that?” Now, this was Dicky’s very first contact with the financial side of art, and it stirred in him just the same spirit of contempt as when the stranger in the train had spoken of the dealers.

“I hope to heaven I’ll never do anything like it,” said he hotly. “It’s not worth doing.”

“It’s worth two guineas to him,” replied Channing “You’ll have to get rid of these high and mighty ideas if you’re going to make your living “Well, give me a chance and let me see what I can do,” retorted Dicky, and the keen note of confidence in his voice persuaded Channing to hand him a story the illustrations for which were already as good as placed with another man.

“Take those proofs home,” he said, “and see what you can do with them. Three illustrations we want —one full page. If you can get them done by the end of the week I might be able to get them in.”

He knew there was not the faintest chance of Dicky’s drawings ever being used, but it gave a flourish to the end of their conversation; it made him seem the man in command.

He smiled to himself when Dicky had gone, but in the back of his mind was some suspicion that he had been talking to a better man than himself.

“Enthusiastic beggar,” he thought; “but he’ll get it knocked out of him.” He remembered his own ambitions when first he began. “It won’t last,” he thought. “They never do,” and, with a sigh which he did not even hear himself, he took up the scissors from the table and cut a joke out of an American paper by his side.

CHAPTER IV

IN a little bedroom under the slates of Mrs. Baldwin’s oil shop, Dicky drank the cup of tea which that good lady had brought him, and seated himself down to the first real work he had ever had to do. In his father’s mill in Gloucestershire it had been labour, not work. Even at that age, Dicky knew the difference. From labour he had run away, and to work he had come sooner than he had ever dreamed of in his wildest hopes. Would his father call it nonsense now if he knew that, on the very first day, he had been commissioned for work that would bring him in as much as the Mill itself could earn in a whole week? Would his Dorothy think he had played such havoc with their chances of marriage if she knew the brilliance of the future that stretched before him? He looked around the little room with its small iron bedstead, its yellow painted deal wash hand stand and chest of drawers, and he smiled.

The sounds of London came through his open window. Already he was beginning to find in them the impetus that they bring to some, and as yet was all unconscious of the bitter monotony they mean to others. There was a small square of linoleum before his washhandstand—that was all the covering that the floor of his bedroom offered; there was no view along the road to Bredon Hill from his window; it looked out onto the roofs and chimney stacks of Great Queen Street, and not a flower or a green thing was in sight. No birds sang there. A few sparrows with raucous voices squabbled and chattered on the roof tops. Yet it all was a magic place to him. He saw himself returning to it evening after evening when his work at the night classes was finished. The sheets on the bed and the towels were clean —they were clean that night, at least. What more could one want in the world than this—this and the first work he had ever done. In the fresh enthusiasm of t, he stood at the chest of drawers and wrote his first letter to Dorothy. Therein he painted all the glowing pictures that were in his mind.

“In less than a year’s time, I’m sure,” he wrote, “we shall be married.” What was there, indeed, to prevent it? The hundred pounds a year he had hoped to make was by this time doubled in his boundless imagination. lie might not be able to draw figures so well as in the illustration which had been shown him, but that would come with his work at the night schools, and, in the meantime, he knew that into his pictures he could put such meaning and such depth as must arrest the attention of all those men he had met that day.

Art was a great thing—a great influence. Even in such a commonplace service of it as illustration a man might put all he knew. Then he believed that every man did his best; indeed, that their best was all men asked of them.

“As soon as these pictures come out in the magazine,” another part of his letter ran, “I’ll send you a copy, and you’ll see my name up in the corner. I’m going to do the very, very best I can. You’ll see Bredor Hill in one of them—just as it is on October evenings when the mist creeps up it through the May trees. I’ll make them see the country as I’ve seen!. Isn’t it grand to have work to do so soon?”

And then he wandered on, questioning her as to how his father had taken his escape from the Mill— whether he had said anything about following him to London.

“He may follow me.” he wrote, “but nothing on earth would bring me back. I don’t care about not being twenty-one. That can’t really have anything to do with it. If I’d stayed on at the Mill, I should have been less a man at twenty-one than I am here at eighteen with my own work to do.”

In this letter to Dorothy Leggatt he enclosed one for his sister Anne, one for his friend, Mr. Hollom.

“I don’t want the pater to know my address,” he wrote to Anne, “so Dorothy will give this to you.

I’ll write all my letters this way. London’s a tremendous place.” He had the sounds of the traffic in his ears as he wrote that. “I had lunch with a lot of journalists to-day in an old tavern near the Temple—that’s where the barristers live. One of the men was an author, another knew one of the ministers of the cabinet. I can tell you it’s something like being in the world to be here. And somehow the noise of all the carts in the street reminds me of the Mill when it’s working.”

How nearly it was like the grinding of those old mill wheels he scarcely knew then. How closely he and all around him resembled the dust of flour the stones ground out, he could not be supposed to understand. It was just a tremendous place; as tremendous as the great stones are to the grain of corn.

His letter to Mr. Hollom was short; perhaps because in the back of his mind he knew that he would realise his difficulties. Dicky did not boast so much in this. He struck the enthusiastic note with a firm hand, but said nothing of all the money he knew he was going to earn.

“Lunch to-day with Mr. Marlow,” he wrote, “cost two shillings and eightpence.’ I can easily see how quickly money goes in London. I sha’n’t have a lunch like that again. But it was worth it. How can I ever thank you enough for that letter of introduction or the money you’ve lent me. I shall soon be able to pay it back- Tell me what the pater says. I suppose he’ll be in a fearful rage.”

It showed Mr. Hollom, as he read it, how little these two had understood each other.

That night, as Dicky worked at his first drawing, Mr. Furlong in the Mill at Eckington sat silently in his armchair. Even Mr. Hollom’s offer to play chess with him was refused.

“I don’t think I could quite give my mind to it this evening,” said he. but pride in himself would not allow him to show that it was anxiety for his son which troubled him. With an open book upon his lap, he sat staring at the chair which once his wife, Christina, had occupied, wondering ‘f, in that heaven he so firmly believed in, she knew of it all and approved.

And far into the night, under those slates of the oil shop in Drury Lane, Dicky worked with a tireless energy, until the candle guttered and the flame sank into darkness. Then he found his way to the bed. In that one hour of the night when at moments you can hear the silence of London he fell asleep.

CHAPTER V

BEFORE the end of the week had arrived the three illustrations were finished. For the figure of the woman which they had needed Dicky had employed the services of Miss Constance Baldwin, daughter of the house, a young girl whose aspirations rose high above paraffin and the needs of the shop below. She had a voice and could sing. The sentimental songs they sang at the Middlesex music hall in those days were constantly on her lips. People in the shop buying their pennyworth’s and their halfpennyworth’s of the shop’s commodities would turn their heads and listen to her as they waited to be served. Some of them told Mrs. Baldwin that they had heard many worse on the real stage.

And this, indeed, was her ambition. In a contest of amateur talent at the Middlesex music hall, where the prizes were awarded according to the amount of applause received, she had been placed second amongst thirty aspirants. She would have been first undoubtedly had it not been for an enemy —and women have so many—who led a band of dissension in the pit. They had hissed and booed, but the applause rose higher. Knowing nothing of this, the iudges accorded her second place.

She told Dicky all about it as he worked.

“The girl who got first,” she informed him, “is making two quid a week now at the ’Olborn.”

Their conversation those two or three days while he worked was stilted and brief. She found he did not answer her questions, and after a time would relapse into silence, during which she fidgetted with little adornments on her dress.

“Don’t you ever say nothin’ when you work?” she asked him on the third day.

“It’s difficult to talk of one thing and think of another,” said he.

“But you’ve only got to copy the lines,” she replied. “I ’ope I look all right. The manager at the Middlesex said I’d got a good figure.”

She waited patiently for his acknowledgment of it. lie said nothing.

“Don’t you think I ’ave?” she asked at last.

“Yes,” said he, “yes—very good,” and at the moment was feeling that the tone of his distance had not all the mystery he desired.

“Don’t say it as if you was certain,” said she. “I should ’ave thought, bein’ an artist, you ought to know. You must ’ave seen plenty of women’s figures. What I mean, you ’ave to paint ’em without any clothes on—don’tcher?”

“I shall have to,” he replied.

“What—’aven’t you done t yet?”

“No.”

“Don’t see ’ow you can call yourself an artist, then. I thought, after drawing straight lines and vases and things like that, that was the first thing you did.” She paused a while, contemplating how she would like to be in such a situation. Seeing that she had a good figure, it might perhaps merely be a little uncomfortable for the moment—just while she felt the first sensation of the cold air on her skin— but after that—well, she knew she had a good figure. “It must feel funny for a girl to stand up to a lot of men with nothing on,” she said. “Don’t think I should like to do it.”

Dicky laid down his drawing.

“Well, I’ve finished,” said he. “That’s all I shall want. I shall have to go out somewhere, to a restaurant or some place, to make a sketch for the man.”

“Let’s ’ave a look,” she begged, lie showed it to her without hesitation.

“But that ain’t like me,” she said. “It’s my figure, right enough, but it ain’t a bit like my face.” That was true enough. So far as a portrait could be made from memory, it was a portrait of his Dorothy. Who else could he have thought of in that scene upon the road from Eckington to Bredon Hill?

“I didn’t mean it to be a portrait,” said he evasively.

“But it’s like someone—ain’t it?”

“Yes, perhaps it is.”

“Someone you know—eh?”

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“I might ‘ave guessed that,” she replied, and, had Dicky been eager to notice it, he would have heard the faint little note of bitterness in her voice.

“Well, what am I going to give you for all these sittings?” he asked quickly. “I’ve counted it up and it’s five hours altogether.”

“I don’t want nothing,” said she, and the same faint note was still there. “If I couldn’t do that much to ’elp, I’d be sorry for myself. Take me out to a theatre one evening—that’ll do, instead.”

Dicky’s mind rushed to Dorothy. He thought of that day when she had said of him how, if he went to London, he would never be the same. A sudden instinct told him that this was what she had meant by it. But he would be the same. Not London nor any place in the world should change him.

“Won’t you let me give you the money?” he asked. “You don’t want to take me to the theatre?”

“It Isn’t that,” he urged.

“You think she’d mind if she knew of it. Well, if she wouldn’t let you take a girl to a theatre—I don’t know—you must please yourself. I don’t want the money, anyway.”

For a moment she waited. There was just a hope in her mind even then. It was tantalising to be refused. She thought even at the last he would change his mind. Other men would have done so. Pride turned her heel for her then. She opened the door and closed it after her. Dicky was left there alone in his little room, conscious of a faint odour of perfume that mingled with the eternal paraffin of the house.

He picked up the picture from the chest of drawers and for ten minutes sat upon his bed, looking at it, when all thoughts of Miss Constance Baldwin were gone from his mind.

Working at them for the rest of that day and the next, the three drawings at length were complete. Wrapping them up in brown paper, he took them down to the offices of The Feather and sent in his name to Channing. This time at least he expected to be sent for at once. They knew who he was; they knew what he had come for. But three-quarters of an hour dragged by, as they had done at the Herald offices, before the boy looked into the waiting room and told him to come this way.

Channing’s feet were resting on a drawer of his desk pulled out for the purpose. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea.

“Hullo,” he said. “Take a seat—what have you got there?”

“The three illustrations,” said Dicky. He might have known.

“Oh, you’ve done ’em—have you?”

“Yes. It isn’t the end of the week yet—but I’ve worked pretty hard.”

“Let’s have a look at them,” said Channing. He stretched out a hand.

Dicky took them out of their brown paper wrapping. His confidence was firm enough, but he knew his heart was beating very quickly. They had to be approved of yet; but he knew they were better than the work of that man who made five hundred a year. He stood there and watched Channing’s face as he laid first one and then another out upon the desk before him. He tried to read in the sub-editor’s expression what he thought of them before he spoke. Small as it might be, he knew this was a critical moment in his life. On the reception of those three drawings lay all his immediate chances of work in the art schools.

He knew he had a whole world of knowledge to acquire, and that only through the medium of a conventional art education would he ever succeed in getting it. The acceptance of these drawings meant the acceptance of other work to come. By these illustrations alone, though they were so paltry to the work he meant to do, he could make the living he desired to enable him to study, and, as he watched Channing’s face, his heart lifted, be cause he saw there an expression of satisfaction. Undoubtedly Channing was satisfied, but at that moment Dicky little guessed the reason. The illustrations of this story had already been sent in by an artist on the staff. They had even gone to the block makers, and occasionally during those four days, while Dicky was working so strenuously in his little bedroom over the oil shop, Channing had wondered how he should meet the enthusiasm of this boy to whom, in a thoughtless moment, he had given the work to do.

Now the matter was simple enough; it had untangled itself. No wonder he felt a sense of satisfaction. The drawings were utterly impossible. With a firm intention to be magnanimous, he laid them carelessly on one side. He had seen so much of this incompetence before. He firmly believed it to be the same—identically the same waste of time and energy as is the lot of all these journals to witness.

The romance of all art is that it seems so easy to win, so generous a victory to come by. The tragedy of art, which Dicky and thousands of others with him come to London to learn, is that they must suffer and strive and inevitably fail who would come with .n sight of their ambition. In an indefinite and unobservant way, Channing was aware of all this. He considered vaguely, as he laid the drawings down, how this was but another conscript in the incompetent army of workers who besiege the offices of all the journals and magazines in London. From close acquaintance with all this incompetency, these men on the staff grow falsely conscious of a sense of their own superiority.

Channing felt sorry for Dicky, so far as he could feel sympathy for any man who was useless to him; but he was satisfied as he felt it that this boy who had held himself superior to one of their regular workers was really just as incapable as the rest. It convinced him that he knew quite well what he was talking about. It brought him that warm assurance, which is the constant belief of all these men of the press, that he knew the public taste.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose you realise that these won’t do at all.”

Indeed, he was sure that Dicky must know it as well as he did himself.

The quick beating of Dicky’s heart stopped suddenly. He could not quite believe the words he had heard.

“Won’t do?” he repeated.

“No.”

“Why not?”

With but the slightest observation, a man would Have been sensitive at once to the tragic note in Dicky’s voice. Channing caught no sound of it. His hand stretched out across the desk, and from a pile of drawings he extracted one at random.

“That’s the sort of thing we want,” said he. “If you want to get on to any of these papers, that’s the sort of thing you’ll have to do.”

Dicky’s eye just fell upon it, then looked back at his own.

“Why must I do what other men are doing?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t mean slavishly copy them,” replied Channing. “This fellow—Loftie—always does a certain type of man and a certain type of woman. People get to know his work by that. They look for his men and his women. I don’t mean that you should imitate his types—but that’s the style of stuff —clean, good outline, a nice finish about it.”

“Mustn’t one have a style of one’s own?” demanded Dicky. “Mustn’t one see things one’s own way for oneself?”

“Not if you’re going to see them like you’ve got in those drawings.”

“What’s the matter with them?” persisted Dicky-“Well—the drawing’s weak—the woman’s not bad, in a way, but the man’s rotten. Then there’s not enough outline about them—they sink back into landscape too much. The landscape’s not bad, but we don’t want a landscape. What people like in an illustration is to see the characters they’re reading about and see ’em plainly.”

“Would you see two people plainly who were standing for shelter under elm trees, and the rain was pouring down from heavy clouds?”

“Oh, I don’t care a damn what I’d see—it’s what I know the public want to see—and you can take it from me, as a good thing to go by, that what the public want is their money’s worth. They don’t want to think, they don’t want to see. You’ve got to think and see for them.”

“I don’t believe you’re right,” Dicky retorted hotly. “You don’t want them to think—you don’t want them to see, because you’ve got nothing to make them think about, nothing to make them see!” For a moment Channing was nonplussed. The energy with which Dicky flung out the words almost brought the truth of it home to him. Then dignity asserted itself. He felt that his superiority was being jeopardised. He asked himself why he was wasting his time over the incompetence of a young boy who knew nothing about his job.

With a sudden movement he collected the drawings and thrust them towards Dicky.

“Oh, take your blasted drawings,” said he. “I can’t waste my time talking to you. They’re no good—isn’t that enough for you? There isn’t an editor in London who’d look at them without laughing. Go on—take ’em—we don’t want that sort of impressionist stuff here. We want something with an artistic finish.”

He nodded to the door, and without another word Dicky went. He walked quickly through the streets. The heat of his mind hastened his footsteps. If any thought was conscious to him, it was that they were all wrong—that he—if he was alone amongst them all—that he was right.

That he had failed was not apparent to his mind until he was back once more in his little bedroom over the oil shop. Then he threw the drawings down and flung himself upon the bed.

“Oh, my God!” he muttered. “What am I going to do?” For in that first moment of failure courage had left him. Indeed, he saw nothing but failure down the whole length of that long road he had set himself to walk. And so, while Dorothy in Eckington was reading for the twentieth time the glowing promise of his success, Dicky lay on his bed, and heavy sobs were shaking h’m from head to foot.

Down in the parlour room below, Mrs. Baldwin heard faintly the sounds of his crying. In the making of her accounts, she stopped a moment to listen, then crept upstairs. He did not hear her knocking on the door. He did not even hear her entrance. His head was buried deeply in the pillow.

“Goodness me,” she said, as she stood beside his bed, “what ’as been ’appen’ to yer?”

He sat up quickly—quickly turned away his head.

“Please go away,” he exclaimed. “Nothing is the matter.”

“But there must be,” she persisted. “A young man don’t go and cry for nothing. Wasn’t the hegg nice I sent yer up this monin’?” She had had her suspicions about that egg for some time. “What is it? You can tell me. I’ve’ad plenty of troubles. I expect you’re ’omesick, eh? Cornin’ all the way from the country like this, Lunnon do seem a bit strange. I should feel just the same if I went down into the country. I did once—and them trees and all those green fields just got on my nerves—I could ’ave screamed. I could—that’s a fact. Look ’ere—you come down and ’ave a cup ’o tea with us in the parlour, and Constance’ll sing a song to yer—that’ll cheer yer up. Come on, wipe yer eyes. I shall ’ave to look after yer.”

She took his arm, and, in the midst of this monotonous business of her oil shop, suddenly felt a mother again.

“I’ll come presently,” he said. “I’ll come presently.”

She chose the wisest course and left him. Downstairs in the parlour she laid out the tea for three.

“Nice boy that.” she continually muttered to herself. “Nice boy that.” And it was all because he had made her feel a mother again.

CHAPTER VI

WHEN Constance came into the parlour and found three plates, three cups and saucers, she said:

“ ’Oo is it?”

Mrs. Baldwin nodded to that region of the house above her head.

“ ’E came back this afternoon,” she said. “I saw ’im come through the shop with a brown paper package under ’is arm—I was servin’ Mrs. Watson of Peabody Bu’ldin’s with a ’apenny worth of beeswax —I think it was a ’apenny worth—I wouldn’t be sure. Then I came up ’ere to do some accounts, and I ’eard a noise upstairs. Sounded ‘!ke cryin’, but I didn’t think it was at the time—’tis difficult, yer know, to tell—what I mean, properly. So I went upstairs, and there ’e was on ’is bed, sobbin’ ’is ’eart out.” “Cryin’ over ‘is girl, I expect,” said Constance. “Wot? ’As ’e got a girl?”

“Yes—down at ’is ’ome, I expec’.”

Mrs. Baldwin began cutting some bread and butter.

“Poor boy,” she murmured. “I like ’im: ’e’s a nice boy. I said you’d sing to ’im if ’e came down.”

Constance sniffed. She wondered why mothers, with all their experience, knew so little of the world.

“ ’E doesn’t want to ’ear me sing,” she said. “Wot an idea—with ’im sickenin’ for someone else. D’you know Mrs. Collins’s baby’s dead?”

“Never!”

“It is. She asked me if I thought our artist gentleman ’ud do a portrait of ’im. She was cryln’ fearful.”

“Well—no wonder—it’s ’er first. Wot did you say?”

“I said I’d ask ’im. She’ll give as much as five bob if ’e’ll put a bit of colour in it.”

“Well, you’d better ask ’im—per’aps that’ll cheer ’im up a bit.”

When Dicky came downstairs they said nothing about his crying. For a time the conversation was very strained, the silence only broken by the audible sounds made by Mrs. Baldwin as she ate her bread and butter. At last Constance reproved her.

“Didn’t know I was making no noise,” she said. “Wot sort of noise?”

“If yer don’t ’ear it yerself,” said Constance, “it ain’t much good tryin’ to correct it.”

And this was the most awkward moment of all to Dicky. He was amazed that Mrs. Baldwin did not seem to mind. In fact, she appeared to be amused.

“She’s always correcting me like that,” she said with a laugh. “You can never bring your children up the same way as you was yourself. They get new ideas from somewhere or other, and they’re always better’n yours. Tell ’im about Mrs. Collins, Constance.”

Then Dicky was told of his first commission, the first portrait he had ever been asked to do. It was with confused sensations that he listened to the offer Mrs. Collins had made. There was something ironical in it—painting the portrait of a dead baby for a woman who probably had not the faintest conception of what a picture should be. Yet it was he who had been asked. They had thought of him as an artist who could do it. They were going to pay him, too. There was no question here about his work requiring approval before it was accepted. Five shillings would pay for his room for a whole week.

So it revolved in his mind. After all, the greatest artists, every one of them, had painted babies at some time or another. Why should he not make a good portrait out of this? There was a subject in it—there was a subject in everything, if it was treated the right way. lie could treat this the right way. There was something even tragic in the thuught of death with a thing so young. That was how it began to appeal to him—as tragedy—he would paint a picture, the meaning of which was tragedy alone, a picture which, to those who saw it, would tell the awful finality of death.

Yet was death so final, after all? lie had feared to see his. mother’s face in death, but he remembered the night on Eckington Bridge, when first he had declared his love for Dorothy. It had seemed then that they might have died together and death would have been hut the beginning. Could he ever get that into his picture, not the finality of death—but the beginning, the setting sail afresh, upon a journey which was none the less real because it was so mysterious? Why should he not do that? There was something big in it—something tremendously worth doing. In a little child the sense of mystery seemed most wonderful of all. It was mystery he would paint—the mysterious journey, of which death was but the raising of the anchor, the first great, glorious setting sail.

In his mind the picture was already painted. In his mind it was already named. Mrs. Collins and her dead baby no longer existed for him. He had found a subject. He would call his picture the mysterious journey.

And the two women sat there by him at the table, wondering how long he would be before he said that five shillings was not enough.

At last he looked up.

“I think death’s frightfully interesting,” he said.

Mrs. Baldwin glanced at her daughter. A disturbing suspicion rose in her thoughts that Dicky’s mind was a little unbalanced. How could death ever be interesting—frightfully interesting? To her it was always an extremely ugly business, about which she thought as little as possible. He had never seen people die in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, or he would not talk nonsense like that. The face of Constance was bewildered, too. She turned back and looked at Dicky, scarcely knowing what to say. But she could not leave t at that.

“You won’t see much hinterest in it,” she said, “when you go round to Peabody Buildings. It’s a first child, is Mrs. Collins’s, and she’s taking on about it terrible. P’r’aps you’ve never seen a dead person.”

“I haven’t,” said Dicky, and felt rather ashamed of the admission. They probably thought he was very young.

“Thought not,” replied Mrs. Baldwin with relief. It accounted in her mind for the peculiarity of his statement. “I don’t like seein’ ’em myself. Course we’ve all got to die—I know that—but it ain’t a thing to think about. Sometimes, when I sees myself lyin’ out stiff—”

“Don’t, mother!” Constance exclaimed.

“Well, I assure you it makes me feel quite creepy-sometimes. I’m not hinterested about it personally —myself.”

“I don’t expect you know quite what I mean,” said Dicky. “You talk of it as if it was the end of everything.”

“It ’ud be the end of mother,” said Constance. “I shouldn’t care to see ’er goin’ on in the shop afterwards.”

“Well, there’s no need to picture it so plainly,” Mrs. Baldwin objected. “I’m sure I wouldn’t care to go on myself, once it was all over. It ’ud be a rest, any’ow—wouldn’t it—that’s what my ’usband said just as ’e was dying. ‘It will be a rest,’ ’e said. But this ain’t saying whether ’e’s goin’ to paint the picture or not.”

Dicky put down his cup of tea.

“Of course I’m going to paint it,” he replied. “I know what I’m going to call it.”

The electric shop bell rang. Whoever had entered stood persistently on the mat in the doorway with every apparent determination of waiting there until they were served. Mrs. Baldwin rose with annoyance to her feet.

“I’ll get a bell put on the door,” she exclaimed. “Then they can only ring it once when they come in. Like their cheek!”

They could hear her expostulations all the way down the stairs, accompanied by the unvarying tinkle of the bell. A door slammed as she entered the shop. Then the bell suddenly ceased.

“And she was as proud of that bell,” said Con stance, “when she got it first. She used to smile every time It rang.”

She leant forward then with both her elbows on the tea table. She was glad her mother had gone. In some instinctive way she knew that Mrs. Baldwin did not understand Dicky in the least. She did not understand him herself, but there was a consciousness in her mind that she wanted to. When, in reply to what he had said about death, she had remarked that it would be the end of Mrs. Baldwin, she knew that if her mother had not been there she would have said something more serious than that. She liked talking about serious things. Sometimes at night, when the rest of the house was in bed, she would lean out of her window and think what a big place Bindon was, wondering how many people there were just within calling distance of her then— wondering how many lovers were locked—she phrased it so—in each others’ arms. And that was as far and as deep as her serious thoughts could take her. But her sensations went deeper than that, however impossible it was to express them. It was something like this that she meant when she said that she liked talking about serious things. However, there was no one she knew who would talk to her about them—no one in Drury Lane. Yet here was somebody. She felt certain that Dicky could talk about serious things.

“What are you going tc call the picture?” she asked.

Dicky looked at her quickly, wondering if she would understand. There was an indefinable suggestion in her attitude, in the look in her eyes, making him snatch at the belief that she would. Perhaps the need for understanding is half the impetus to these men of Dicky’s temperament. Perhaps the urging desire to express themselves is greatly stimulated in them by this. Certainly the thought that she might realise his meaning caught fast upon his mind. He leant forward in his chair.

“I’m going to call it ‘The Mysterious Journey,’ ” said he.

She nodded her head in acceptance of the title, as though she had thoroughly grasped its significance, yet so little did she follow it that she was forced to ask him why.

“Because that’s what I believe about death,” said he. “It isn’t the end—it’s the beginning—like a ship that comes into port, discharges her cargo, reloads and starts off again. And don’t you see that’s what I want to get into this, not the feeling of the end—but the beginning.”

Constance glanced at him queerly. These were new ideas to her. With some effort her mind stretched out to reach them, but they were completely beyond her grasp.

“Where does it go to when it starts off again?” she asked.

“Where does what go?”

“The ship?”

She clung strenuously to the symbol. So far as the ship was concerned, she could understand. It was quite beyond her to appreciate what it had to do with Mrs. Collins’s dead baby.

“Well, where does a ship go?” said he. “Right —miles across the sea on another journey. If you saw her setting sail—saw her dipping down below the line of the horizon and hadn’t the faintest idea what part she was making for—there’d be a certain amount of mystery in it to you, wouldn’t there?”

She nodded her head.

“I suppose there would,” said she.

She chose her answers warily. There was nothing likely to commit her in that, for, though she was intensely interested, knowing instinctively that he was talking about very serious things, there was not a word of it she understood. In some confused way, she supposed that he was going to paint a picture of Mrs. Collins’s baby; but whether he was going to paint it on a ship that was sailing out of harbour, or just as it was lying on that bed in Peabody Buildings she had not the faintest idea. It was the wildest rigmarole to her, but she was tremendously interested. You can imagine it was but little more than a wild rigmarole to Dicky, and he was keenly interested, too.

He was possessed with the same sensations as, when, a boy in the country, he sometimes believed as he lay down and peered into the forest of grass stems that he was on the verge of discovering the whole secret of life. No doubt it is a sensation we all play with when we are young. We grow older, and experience teaches us that the secret .s not for our discovery. We say we are wiser then and turn our hands and thoughts to more material things. But it might well be debated whether, after all, experience is so wise as that youthful straining to the infinite.

In these incoherent speculations upon death, Dicky was struggling with all the impetuosity of youth and ambition for the unattainable. Great men keep that impetuosity till the end. Little men lose it no sooner do they touch life and learn that it can be very comfortable to live. You will see how long Dicky kept it—how nearly he lost it—how at the last he regained it—how great or how small a man he was.

Here, then, they sat, these two children, in the parlour sitting-room over the oil shop, the one floundering in such deep water as she had never been in before, the other striking out with all the vigorous strength of youth, hardly knowing the direction in which he went, scarcely conscious of what progress he bad made. He did not even realise how, with that look of interest in her eyes alone, she w as urging him on to fresh endeavour.

“I should never have thought,” said he at last, “that you’d he the sort to be interested in things like that.” His mind even wandered to a wondering if Dorothy would have shown so much interest as this girl. The comparison was inevitable. He was just touching life for the first time. Every new thing he saw he compared with those he had known. The suspicion that he was ungenerous to Dorothy made him put the thought away.

“You see that’s how I want to paint,” he continued. “I want to put down what things mean, not simply just what they are. I tried to do that m a way with those illustrations I was doing.”

“ ’Ow did they like them?” she asked.

“They won’t have them,” said he. He did not care by now. The prospect of the picture he was going to do had long disposed of all the disappointment he had suffered. “They’ll never take anything of mine now. I had a row with the man. He told me to take the blasted things away. He lost his temper—so did I. There’s no more chance for me there.”

“But I thought you were counting on that,” said Constance. “You told me that was ’ow you were goin’ to get enough to go to the art schools.”

He nodded his head.

A little eagerly she leant nearer to him across the table.

“Was that why you were crying upstairs on your bed?” she asked.

“Who told you?”

“Mother.” lie did not know what to say. Of course she thought he was a fool. But how was she to guess all that the loss of that work had meant to him? It had only been for the moment. He cared no longer now. He knew that the day would come when he could make Channing eat every word he had uttered. Did the money matter so much? He still had eleven pounds and his sketches to sell. If he sold some of those, he could do others. In some way or another he was sure that he would find his way to the schools. What seemed most of all to matter at the moment was that she should think him a fool. He did not stop to question why that should he so; his only desire was to efface the impression from her mind.

“I was still in a rage then,” said he. “I don’t care a bit now. Doing those illustrations wouldn’t have done me any good. This thing I’m going to do now’s a million times better. I can make something of that.”

“But you were crying,” she persisted, and through that cockney drawl, which he had disliKed so much at first, there sounded a note which fell with a strange softness and pleasantness on his ear.

“And I suppose you think I’m an awful fool for that,” said he.

“I wish I’d come up instead of mother,” she replied.

For an instant there was a sense of overwhelming pleasure in his mind as he heard her say it. For that moment, too, he almost wished it had been she who had come up and spoken to him. Not knowing how valiantly.she had struggled in complete bewilderment of all he had been saying, he thought she would have understood. And then, striking swiftly in upon the eagerness of that moment, came the’ burning remembrance of his Dorothy. He stood up at once like one accused.

“How about this Mrs. Collins?” said he.

She laid a hand on his arm and she smiled.

“You’re a queer boy,” she said.

CHAPTER VII

PEABODY BUILDINGS, Drury Lane, is one of those vast tenement erections in London, built around an open asphalt square which not even the architect would presume to call a quadrangle. There are no hours of the day and few of the night when this square is silent; but at dinner time, when the children come home from school, and in the afternoon, when school for the day is over, the place becomes a pandemonium. Their shrieks and cries, the incessant clatter of their nailed boots as they rush up and down on the hard asphalt —for this and the streets is the only playground they have—make a hell on earth of it to the outsider. To those who live within and have become hardened to these disturbances it is home, and when you have said that, doubtless you have accounted for many things.

The different houses, distinguished only by their doorways, are lettered from A to Z. In other Peabody Buildings they may reach to the end of the alphabet; in Drury Lane they extend so far perhaps as to the letter N. They are some four or five stories in height, and on each floor are two or more habitations consisting of three cramped rooms—a parlour-kitchen and two bedrooms. A washhouse is the common property of each building. Stone stairs with iron railings lead up to each floor, and a wooden door, like that of a prison cell, bearing the number of the habitation, stands in the bare wall upon the bare stone landing, showing where one of the numberless families live. In this confined space they give forth their contribution to the state and to that teeming mass of humanity which shrieks and clatters and leaps in the asphalt square below.

In all seeming unconsciousness of the prisoned conditions in which they live, there stands on almost every windowsill a small wire cage—some not more than six inches by six—in which a silent bird mopes out its days until some still morning when it finds its great deliverance. On a few more windowsills there are flowers, righting gallantly against the smoke. They stand there in their grimy pots, no longer red, the eternal proof that mankind was turned out of a garden and is forever struggling to get back.

In number nine of F buildings, with the sounds of the children playing in the asphalt square outside, Mrs. Collins sat dejectedly by the side of the bed on which the dead body of her baby lay.

You might imagine that, under such conditions as these, life would not be held at so high a price. One the less, it would seem, in these prisons must be much more welcome than one the more. Yet, whatever you imagine, you know well that, strangely enough, this is not so. No doubt, as Mrs. Baldwin had said, it was more poignant in the case of Mrs. Collins. This was her first child, and, though the wonder of deliverance can surely never cease in a woman, yet the first must be most wonderful of all. Surroundings, conditions have less to do with the matter than you are given to suppose. The discordant cries of the children, the wheezing note of a caged thrush on the windowsill, the straw mattress and the untidy room which for some days she had felt too ill to set to rights, counted for nothing when she heard that first cry and know that the thing which she had thought about for so long was no longer mysterious, but real.

She was a thin little woman with pinched cheeks. None too young to be having her first child. The romance of it had been ail the greater for that. At the age of thirty-four she had given up all hope of anything wonderful in life and followed her business of charring with a dry heart and thin lips tightly pressed. And then one day, a man whom the other women had often laughed at for his ugliness had found some sort of beauty in her eyes. From that moment her lips were often parted. She went sometimes singing to her work.

But it is a dangerous thing to find life too wonderful, even in Peabody Buildings. After a six months’ struggle at the doors of death which stand so nearly opposite to those through which one enters into life, her baby had died. She counted it to Fate, as so many women do. She had been too old, she said, and it was never likely that she could ever have another one.

Eeside the bed, then, in that room which was untidy now because she did not care, Dicky found Mrs. Collins touching the hand of her dead baby.

He had knocked at the door and there had been no answer. Had Constance not prepared him for this, he might have gone away; but she had told him that if he got no reply to his knocking he was to enter.

“I’ve told ’er you were cornin’ round,” she said.

The door of the bedroom opposite had been open, and, as he entered, he saw Mrs. Collins within.

“Come in,” she said, but she did not move. In that instant Dicky received the impression that she was clinging to something which very soon was to be taken from her and would not spare one moment from its side. In that egotism of his art he forgot that afterwards. Wrapped in the desire to get his meaning, the realisation that she needed a picture of her child because she still wanted to keep it by her when they had taken it away, soon escaped him.

Even when she said, “I thought almost of ’avin’ its photo taken,” It did not make clear to him the service he could do for her. He stood there by the bed beside her and looked at death for the first time in his life; never understanding the sorrow of it, forgetting everything in that keen and determined idea to catch its meaning.

So for some moments, he remained there in silence regarding, not her misery, but rather the nervous susceptibility of his mind to the finest impression it received.

And it was all as he had thought. Death did not look like the end. The perfect quiet .n the child’s face as it lay there so still on the bed proclaimed not death to him—but departure. Something that had been there had gone away. The mysterious journey was right. As he gazed at the pale cheeks and the closed eyelids he believed he could convey it all, and his fingers were burning to begin. For suddenly he had seen how it was to be done. It was the mother he must paint as well as the child; for there, in the mother’s look of misery, was the knowledge of those chains which bound her still in anchorage, and, through the contrast of that alone, could he show in the peaceful quiet of those closed eyes the sense of freedom, the joyous liberty of a life set free upon its mysterious journey.

This, then, I take it, was the attitude of Richard Furlong’s mind in those early days before he had come in touch with his later education. He sought always for meanings; and it was always the mysterious meanings he inclined to most of all. Yet it was never with symbols he chose to illustrate his mystery. The mystery he saw himself and went straight to the real for its expression. But as in his early days he used the medium of contrast of material things, so later, as his mind developed, he portrayed the thing, the mystery itself.

In his “Romance,” in his “Holiness,” in that undoubted masterpiece, his “Adventure,”—the rippling passage of a tiny stream which gives you all the knowledge of the brook, the river, the torrent, the wide and open sea it shall become—even in this “The Mysterious Journey,” which again in later years he painted once more, there is no reliance upon contrast. For in the second painting of “The Mysterious Journey” the mother is left out. He went straight to the meaning of the mystery itself—it would be well nigh impossible to say how he achieved it, mainly, doubtless, it was through colour. Form troubled him but little, though, indeed, I have never heard him accused of bad draughtsmanship.

But in those early days, as when that afternoon he stood in the bedroom of number nine, F, Peabody Buildings, he could as yet only feel his way through the medium of contrast.

And so he remained standing in silence while these things formulated swiftly in his mind.

It was Mrs. Collins who spoke first.

“Seems just as if ’e was sleepin’—don’t ’e?” she said pathetically. “Such a beautiful boy ’e was, too.

Well, yer can see, can’t yer? I’ve never seen a baby with such blue eyes as ’e ’ad. A fair treat they was to look at.”

“When did he die?” asked Dicky.

“ ’S morning—two o’clock. I was sittin’ by ’im— just like what I am now.” The poor creature had told this in just the same way to every one who had come to see her. Each time it refreshed the misery in her mind, and that was the only joy she had left to her.

“Sittin’ ’ere by the side of the bed, I was. The doctor’d said ’c mightn’t last out the night, but that, if ’e did, p’r’aps there’d be a chance for ’im. Well, it ’ad just struck two. ‘My Gawd,’ I says to myself, ‘it’ll be daylight in another hour,’ meaning n me mind, yer know, that the night ’ud be over then an’ ’e’d ’ave pulled through. An’ I suppose I ’adn’t said that ’bove a minute afore ‘is little eyes open and ’e starts coughin’ and wrigglin’. Gawd knows I did what I could—but it ‘ad all come over i:n too quick —convulsions, yer know. It seemed to tear ’is little body till I could ’a’ cried lookin’ at ’i’m. And then, all of a sudden, when it was like as if ’e was in a knot, yer know, ’e stopped and ’is little ’ead was quite still on the piller. I thought it was the way they’d passed for a minute, yer know—and then”— the tears began to drop from her eyes—“I could see ’e wasn’t breathin’. My ’usband, ’e ran out for the doctor, of course, but it was toe late. Gawd, what an easy thing do kill ’em, don’t it?”

She wiped her eyes and her nose on a corner of the sheet. No doubt, when she said that, there was a swift comparison in her m iid with the struggle it had been to give it life. And then—how easy a thing it was to lose! That must be the bitter Irony of it to so many.

“I sha’n’t be in the way, shall I,” she went on, “if I sit ’ere while you’re doin’ the picture? ’E’s going to be buried to-morrow.”

“No, I want you there,” said Dicky.

“Wot, you ain’t goin’ to do me, too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Rut I’m all untidy, and I don’t want no picture of meself. Besides, I can’t afford more’n five shillin’s, an’ a photograph ’ud be cheaper’n that—only I thought—if you’d pur in a bit of colour—I’d ’eard yer was an hartist from Miss Baldwin—I thought it ’ud be worth the extry shillin’ or two.”

“You shall have it for nothing, if you like,” said Dicky, “only I must have you in it, too.”

And so, though it was true that she wanted no picture of herself, she sat there in order to be near her baby, and Dicky set to work.

In the fresh heat of the idea, he painted quickly. The canvas was not a large one, scarcely more than two feet square. It was only the impression he sought for, paying little heed to construction or to line.

At intervals as he worked Mrs. Collins told him stories of the child, living over its brief life again with each one she recounted, and forever wiping her eyes on the corner of the sheet.

In two hours he had finished. Every fresh stroke of the brush then was robbing him of the impression he had caught. With an exclamation of despair he laid his palette down.

“I daren’t do any more,” said he.

With the tone of his voice, the exclamatory way in which he said it, Mrs. Collins, for the first time since its death, forgot her baby and looked up from the bed.

“What d’ yer mean, yer daren’t do any more?” she asked.

“I should lose it all if I did,” he replied. “I got it a bit at first. I could feel it as plainly as anything. Just at the end I was trying to get the lighting—the lighting’s ripping. But the moment I did that it began to go.”

To the ears of Mrs. Collins this was some foreign tongue. She looked at him in amazement and then, for want of better explanation, she held out her hand.

“Let’s ’ave a look at t,” she said.

He held t out.

“But yer ’aven’t shown ’is eyes,” she said. “I told yer they was blue—didn’t I? An’ what’s that black thing sprawlin’ across in front there?”

“That’s you,” said Dicky.

“My Gawd—well, I don’t want nothin’ like that. You ’aven’t shown ’is eyes.”

“But they’re shut,” said Dicky gently.

“Gawd—don’t I know that? But I wanted somethin’ to remind me of ’im when ’e was alive. That was why I wanted ’is picture taken. Why, it ain’t like ’im at all—not the way I used to see ’im, laughin’ as ’e did sometimes. You don’t want me to pay five shillin’s for that, do you?”

In Dicky’s mind grew a great sense of relief. Now he could keep it for himself. Undoubtedly he would have given it to her for nothing, and with an apprehensive mind he offered it to her then.

“I don’t want it at all,” she said. “I’ll get a photo taken—that’s what I’ll do. They can paint the eyes in-—like Mrs. Warner got done of ’er ’usband when he died.”

“But it doesn’t look as if he was dead, does it?” said Dicky.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “It doesn’t look to me like nothin’. I wanted to see ’im all sit-tin’ up like ’e used to. I thought if you was an hartist yer could do that. I suppose it doesn’t even look as if ’e was dead to me. I don’t know what ’e looks like.”

Dicky’s eyes blazed.

“Ah, it doesn’t seem quite line death, then,” he exclaimed. “You’ve said it—and I never meant that it should.”

With a sudden impulse he dived his hands into his pocket.

“Mrs. Collins,” he said, “will you let me pay for the photograph? I’ve wasted your time all for nothing. Let me pay for it.”

She gazed up at him with her red eyes.

“It’s very kind—I must say,” said she. “I don’t know that I ought to accept it from you ’ lie took the tone of her voice and pressed the money into her hand.

“Please,” said he.

And, as she lifted up her skirt to put it in her pocket, she burst again into tears.

CHAPTER VIII

WITH the severest economy, taking his meals in cheap eating houses, reducing his breakfasts to the plain cup of tea and piece of bread and butter, Dicky soon saw before him the moment when his twelve pounds would be gone.

It was not this that worried him. After two weeks in London he had prepared his mind for the prospect of poverty. That which threatened the breaking of his spirit was when day by day he saw no further hope of getting to the art schools. For the night classes their fees were reasonable enough —less even than he had imagined—but they were utterly beyond the reach of his purse.

For one whole week he walked the length and breadth of so much of London as he knew, visiting the shops where pictures were sold and offering his sketches at any price they might be willing to pay. They were unwilling to pay anything. Picture-framers who hung small water-colour sketches in their windows, marking them at prices which Dicky would have thought a fortune for his own, all regarded his work in the same light.

“You won’t sell these,” one of them said. “They ain’t the sort of stuff people buy. Not enough definition in ’ei—too higgledypiggledy, if yer know what I mean—too much fancy about ’em. People like a figure or two or a few cattle in their landscapes. Now, if you was to take that one and put a woman in it carryin’ a pail or somethin’, I nrght give you ten bob for it. ”I wouldn’t be worth more.”

And that day, with a lighter heart, Dicky returned to his bedroom over the oil shop, and Constance stood in a corner of the room, holding a slop-pail— the nearest thing tc hand—while Dicky brought in the human interest which was to make his sketch the more pleasing to the public taste.

They took it back together to the shop, and Constance came in with him, standing by Dicky’s side while the picture-framer laid it out on the counter and dispassionately regarded it from every point of view.

“Well,” said he, “it’s better, of course. Got the ’uman note in it now, ’asn’t it? I knew that was what it wanted, but I don’t like it really, yer know, myself. I don’t think I could sell it, not even if I put it in a four-bob frame. I can see the merits of it, mind yer—it’s probably better than this chap’s— Walter Blaney’s—and I sell a good deal of ’is. But I don’t think I could sell it. You’ve improved it, though—you ’ave improved it.”

With a bitterness of mind too great for words, too crushing for retaliation, Dicky took the picture from off the counter. It seemed just then that it was no good to try. The great hammers were pressing down very close upon his spirit. He asked himself how any man could ever learn when he must fight such odds as these. In this moment he had forgotten Constance, but the next was made aware of her.

“I suppose you think you know what’s good?” she exclaimed. The picture-framer looked surprised, and, as Dicky glanced at her, her ey es were blazing. It seemed she knew the bitter d’sappointment it had been, and, whereas it had numbed the spirit in Dicky, it had stung the spirit in her.

“You don’t know no more about pictures than what I do,” she went on. “Talking all that blitherin’ nonsense about the ’uman note. If you’d a little more of the ’uman note yourself, you’d pay for the picture like a man after you’d ordered it. You told ’im to put the woman in it with a pail—didn’t yer? You said you’d give ’im ten bob for it if ’e did. And now ’e’s spoilt ’is picture, you won’t buy it.”

Dicky took her arm, but she shook him off. “Leave me alone,” she exclaimed, “I know what I’m saying, even if I ain’t talkin’ sense. ’E said ’e’d pay yer ten bob an’ ’e ought to pay yer ten bob.” And by now the picture-framer had regained his breath. Surprise and bewilderment had given way to incensed dignity. He was in his own shop. He had never been spoken to in his own shop like that before. With a certain qu’ckness of mind, he had gauged the difference in class between Constance and Dicky, and, with that snobbishness of his race, he was just as quick to use it in his defence. His face was hot and his words tumbled one over the other, but he knew what he was saying.

“Look ’ere, my young woman,’’ he began, “I don’t know what the likes of you are doin’ along with this gentleman—unless you’ve picked ’im up, ’ave yer? But if yer don’t get hout of my shop, I’ll damned well send the policeman for yer—and I don’t suppose it’ll be the first time ’e’s taken yer for a walk. Go on! Get hout! And if I was that gentleman I’d wait till yer’d turned the corner of the street afore I looked after yer.’’

Dicky took her arm.

“Come away,” he said gently. “You can’t do any good.”

Then suddenly he caught the sense of all the picture-framer had said and he turned back.

“If you ever have the good fortune to meet a lady,” said he, “ask her as a favour to tell you the way she ought to be spoken to.”

“What—do you want the bobby, too!” he shouted.

“Yes,” said Dicky quietly, “but you’ll have to come over this side of your counter to get him— if you grasp what I mean by that.”

He felt his legs were trembling, just as he had trembled when he had fought his battle with young Wilfrid Leggatt. The very thought of a right disgusted him, and already he could see in vivid pictures the ugly scene that would follow. But he was before a woman and his own conscience. However much he feared the consequences, something within him prevented him from turninig back.

“Well, are you coming over,” he repeated, and he wondered if Constance heard the shaking in his voice.

“I can go round by my back door if I want to,” said the picture-framer.

Dicky laughed—to himself he confessed it was the laughter of relief.

“In that case,” said he, “I’m afraid you wouldn’t find me here when you got back. Mind you I’m not asking to be run in—only if you want to run me in, come over this side and do it. Are you coming over?”

“Are you goin’ out of my shop?” the framer demanded.

And again Dicky laughed. cry well,” he said, “yes, I’m going—and shall I just tell you something before I go?”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve got a dirty mind—good morning.”

Not until they were some distance from the shop door, did Dicky’s heart begin to settle down to a normal pulse. He was strongly impressed with the thought that he had been a coward. Another man, he told himself, would have taken his satisfaction without asking for it. He felt contempt for himself, and the more he was conscious of that, the higher rose his admiration of the girl beside him.

There had been a certain fearlessness about her. It was with an effort that he had induced her to come away. Moreover, it had all been in protection of him. Her spirit had risen to that outburst because of his misfortune. He glanced at her quickly, stalking along there by his side. She was finer than he was. The comparison which he inevitably made brought down his spirits to their lowest depths.

He had no doubt now that he was meant for failure. What prospect was there for him to entertain? His work was not wanted. There was no hope in his mind that he could ever begin the training he knew to be essential to his success. The thought of returning to his home, of going back to work in the Mill, came unsought for to his mind. It stirred him to a bitter anger. He would starve, he would put an end to himself rather than go back. Even when a vision of Dorothy Leggatt stood before his thoughts, he flung it away. Nothing should bring him back! Surely there was work he could find in London. He set his teeth, his nostrils quivered and, looking at him, Constance saw the strange expression in his face.

“Buck up, Dicky,” she said—the first time she had used his name—and, without thinking what he did, he linked his arm in hers as they walked.

“I am bucking up,” he replied bitterly. “I’m not going to give in. They’ll take my pictures one day.”

She pressed his hand. When she chooses a man, a woman likes him to fight. It might have appealed more to the mind of Constance had Dicky blackened the picture-framer’s eyes. There was never a fight in the streets but what she watched it with a glowing satisfaction. But she was none the less aware that he had a stern struggle before him now and was keeping up his head, if ever so faintly, against overwhelming odds. All that it meant to him it is not to be supposed she could ever have guessed. It was enough for her that she knew he .was fighting, and. from the moment that he had taken her arm, from the moment that she had called him Dicky, other woman or no other woman, he was her man.

“ ’Course they’ll take yer pictures.” she exclaimed. “You’ll be paintin’ a poster for me one of these days for the music ’alls.”

Somehow or other, that showed him how little she understood what selling a picture meant to him, and, with that, he realised his arm was in hers. He let it go, and all the goodness in life, t seemed to her, went with it.

“You seem to think I want to make money,” said he. “I only want to make money to learn.”

She knew she had been rebuked. She had not understood.

“All right,” she said. I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER IX

FOUR weeks more went by, and the last of Dicky’s money lay in the palm of his hand. One night he sat upon his bed and counted it. Six shillings and a few odd pence remained. He stared at failure, he stared at poverty, and knew them both as you know the sight of a fate that has been following you for days.

“Now I’ve come to the end,” he said aloud, and yet he knew it was not the end. Even though the advertisements he had answered in the papers, the situations in shops he had applied for, had all been in vain, even when after that week there was no prospect of a roof to his head, or a meal for him to eat, yet he was sure it was not the end.

Mrs. Baldwin knew nothing of this, and Constance only half guessed the truth. Had they realised he was so closely put to it, doubtless they would have suggested one of the numerous agencies where work is to be found. But he had never heard of them. When he answered the notices placed in a shop window, whereon all the requirements he thought applied to him were set forth, he found that they regarded him with no little suspicion, and one and all of them assured him curtly or kindly that he would not do.

In those days his hair was growing long. Jagged ends of it lapped over the collar of his coat. He had not had it cut since he came to London. Being an expense, even only of a couple of pennies, he was quite ready to let it go. His appearance had never attracted his attention, not even in those days when first he fell in love with his Dorothy. Now, it meant less to him than ever.

Yet it was his appearance, more than anything else, that went against him in those efforts to find work. At no moment in these civilised times of ours »s it any easy thing to do; and when a man’s appearance gives the impression of a character that is out of the common, few will be found to give him employment. They were conscious of Dicky’s long dark hair, the bright light of energy in his eyes. Ev en the quick, impulsive note in his voice was unfavourable to his chances. Quickness is not what they need. They must have the dull, dogged animal at the machine. Dicky was a fire-brand. He spluttered and burnt up and flared. It was only when he was alone, with the light of the one candle in his little room, that he burnt low; then hope and energy were faint glimmerings which his eyes must strain to see.

On Saturday, the last day of his last week, he came into the parlour where Mrs. Baldwin was having tea alone and laid the money for his lodging upon the table. She put it away in a drawer, where it chinked with other money that was there.

“ ‘Ave a cup o’ tea,” she said.

He took it eagerly. For the whole of that week, the meal in the middle of the day had been suspended. By tea time, the sight of food was almost aggravating. For a few minutes he ate quickly and in silence. Before he had sat down to the table, he had felt that there was an element of tragedy in the fact that he had to tell Mrs. Baldwin that this was his last week—to tell her, moreover, without her knowing the next he might be starving. But with four thick pieces of bread and butter inside him and the warmth of the steaming tea, it seemed once more that this was not going to be the end; that in some measure these were the difficulties he had anticipated and they were there for his fighting.

He asked if he might have another cup of tea and then, with comparative cheerfulness, he told her.

“Goin’!” she repeated. “Where are yer goin’? Artn’t yer comfortable ‘ere? I’m sure my place is as tidy as anyone’s. You wouldn’t get clean sheets once a fortnight nowhere else. And it ain’t my fault, is it, if yer don’t ’ave yer egg or yer bacon for breakfast? I’ve always said a young feller, growin’ like you, couldn’t do on bread and butter. What do yer want to be goin’ for, just as we was beginnin’ to like yer? I tell yer it ain’t no easy job gettin’ a nice lodger. Last one I ’ad behaved most improper, ’e did—I ’ad to arst ’im to go, and I know I was careful enough to ’ave single gentlemen printed on the notice. What d’yer want to go for?”

She said it almost petulantly. He knew quite well, if he were to give her his reasons, she would put aside all questions of his paying until another time. Yet there was something in the nature of pride that prevented him. Good-hearted creature as she was, he felt that he could not bear her sympathy; for with sympathy it seems there must be much of understanding, and of that he knew she was utterly devoid. So he clung to his pride, as most of us do, because it was his pride that pleased him. He felt then that he would far sooner starve than be misunderstood; the hot tea, moreover, had cheered him. He stood up from the table ready to face a sea of troubles.

“It isn’t exactly that I want to go,” said he, “because I ha\e been very comfortable here. But I think I’m going home.”

This he said at random. It was the first and most rational excuse that came to his lips.

“What—aren’t yer doin’ no good ’ere?” she enquired. “ ’Asn’t Mrs. Collins paid yer for ’er baby?”

“Well, that was only five shillings,” he replied. “Besides, I couldn’t do the sort of thing she wanted. She had a photograph taken of it instead. Oh, no,

I suppose I’m getting on all right. But I think I must go home.”

Mrs. Baldwin was a woman who quickly realised and accepted the inevitable. With a gesture of deprecation, she began piling the tea things one upon the other.

“Constance will be disappointed,” said she, “now that she’s got ’er turn at the music ’all and all.”

Indeed, this much was true. Constance had found success. The Middlesex had taken her on for a turn early in the evening. She had given them tickets, and Dicky and Mrs. Baldwin had been to see her. He wished afterwards he had not. Some of his father’s puritanism was still in his blood. In other women, there was no thought against it in his mind; but, with one whom he knew and admired more than he allowed himself to imagine, a feeling of distaste had forced itself upon him. He had felt that she was making herself cheap, and it had induced in h’m an unreasonable, ati uncomfortable state of resentment. Self-analysis as yet was no characteristic of his. Had it been so, he might have known that he was nearing a deeper appreciation of Constance than, with his love of Dorothy, he had ever thought possible.

As often as he could, he had avoided this state of mind. And now, when he came to think of it, he was glad he was going; it took him out of touch with a sense of disappointment which he had often found irritating to his thoughts. He had caught himself watching her departure for the music hall in tnt evening. At times he was surprised to find that he was wondering with what sort of men she was compelled to associate on the stage. Doubtless, when he had gone, he would forget all this. He was not sorry he was going.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said he, “but don’t think I haven’t been comfortable. I have. You’ve been very kind to me.”

“Then you’re goin’ on Saturday,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, and went up to his room.

He had come to regard that room with no little affection by this. The picture of Mrs. Collins’s baby was pinned over his bed; some of the sketches he had made in London were pinned to the walls. There was infinitely more homeliness about the room now than when he had first entered it. It brought his work and his ambitions to his mind whenever he was there. There, for the last two months or so, he had thought of his work, day and night. There he had elaborated the sketches he had done in London, throwing out his mind to hold the thousand effects he was always conscious of in the streets.

Even in that short lime, he knew he had improved. One sketch, a wagon load of flowers, crawling up Long Acre, in the mysterious grey of an early morning, was so much above anything he had done as yet that the mere fact of its having been worked upon in that room brought the place closely in sympathy with him.

As he looked at that sketch, stuck with stamp paper to the wall, he did not really know whether he was glad to be going or not. Ideas changed as quickly with him as this.

He had called the picture “Fragrance”—for everything he did, he named—and, as he looked at it that evening.believing it to be good as judged by the standard of his ability then, he felt that surely he would be able to sell it and then might stay on there for another week or two.

By this time he was realising that he was sorry to go. Something would inevitably be gone out of his life if he went away. He started at the sound of a knock on the door. When Constance entered to his answer, he knew that his heart had begun beat!, g to a quicker pulse.

“I shall miss this room terribly,” he told himself. “I can work here.” This was what he forced himself to think as she stood there facing him. And it was true. He could work there. But it was the thought that she was present in the house; that, though she did not understand his work, yet understood the struggle he must face, this it was that stirred and urged him on.

Each man as he works is subject to the influence of a woman. He works for her, or because of her, or in despite of her. It is only the love of the work itself she cannot hinder or inspire.

When she closed the door, Dicky knew well what she had to say. He stood there waiting for her to speak, half joyful in his heart that she had come, still conscious of his pride that he would not be beholden to anyone.

“Mother says you’re goin’,” she began, “goin’ on Saturday.”

He nodded his head.

“What d’yer want to go for?”

“I must.”

She sat down on the bed. She had been to a variety agent’s and was wearing a new dress, a dress she had bought recently with the money she was earning. She knew she looked well. She knew that, unless her calculations were all at fault, he was not going to go.

“Mother says you’re goin’ ’ome,” she went on.

The pause was minute, and then he said, “Yes.”

But that pause was long enough for her. Her heart jumped because she was sure it was untrue.

“You ain’t goin’ ’ome,” she said quickly. “You’re ’ard up—broke—you can’t pay any more for yer lodgin’. That’s what it is. Yer can’t kid me.”

And, if he was not going home, then it was not the other woman, after all. That was what she had feared when first her mother had told her. “It’s ’er,” she had said to herself, and there was no sense of duty in her mind. From the moment he had taken her arm after leaving the picture-framer’s, from the moment she had realised all the disappointment there lay before him, every sense of duty to the other woman had gone from her thoughts. He was her man, she was ready to light for him as she would, if necessary, have fought the picture-framer.

“You can’t kid me,” she repeated.

He looked her straightly in the face, the last struggle in his mind to keep his pride. And then, no doubt it seemed, what did pride matter? Wasn’t it better to have sympathy? He had failed in so far as that he could no longer afford to stay there. But it was not failure. If he had to live in the streets, he knew he would go on; he knew that he would win in the end. That sketch of the wagon of flowers proved to him that he was going to win. He could feel that he was getting nearer to the understanding of himself. As he looked at it then, stuck with its stamp paper to the wall, he knew that it did not matter if she heard the truth. He was going to win.

W ith a smile on his face, he pulled himself up on to the chest of drawers, and swung his legs, knocking his heels together.

Well,” he said, “what if I’m not going home?”

“You ain’t?”

“No.”

“Then you are ’ard up? You are broke?”

“Yes.”

He took the money out of his pocket and counted it in his hand.

“At the end of this week,” he said, “I shall have seven pence half penny.”

She screwed up her eyes and looked at him. “Well, what are you goin’ to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are yer goin’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t yer write ’ome for some? Yer father ’ud give it yer—wouldn’t ’e?”

“I’d sooner go right under than do that,” he replied.

She got up from the bed and crossed the room, standing beside him at the chest of drawers.

“You’re not goin’ under,” she said quietly. “When I said that about your paintin’ a poster for me one day, I was only coddin’. You’re goin’ to ’ave pictures ‘ung in the National Gallery one day— d’yer think I don’t know that? Good hartists don’t paint no posters for early turns on a music ’all. Why, I sha’n’t be even good enough to ’ave a poster for meself when everybody’s talkin’ about you. D’yer think I don’t know that?”

He listened to all she said. It was like a soothing ointment on an angry wound. It was not true, but she was saying it, and she was saying it in that tone which only a woman knows how to bring into her voice.

“I’ll do a poster for you one day,” he said, “that’ll make everyone stop to look at t—and they’ll have to hang it outside where everyone can see it.”

“Is that a promise?” she asked.

“Yes—a promise,” he replied.

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said she.

“What?”

“I’ll begin payin’ you for it now. I’ve got lots of money. They give me thirty shillings a week, yer know, at the Middlesex. I’ll begin payin’ yer for it now, and then you can stop on ’ere.”

His first thought was that he could go on working. It would be impossible if he was living in the streets. Then he tried to bring his mind to the belief that it was a just transaction. He would paint a poster for her one day. He knew well enough that promise would be kept. But was it fair in the way of business to take the payment for it now?

“But if I get it,” said he, “I shall pay it back. You’re only lending me the money.”

“I don’t care what I’m doin’,” she replied. “You’re goin’ to stop ’ere—that’s all I want.”

And then from her purse she took a sovereign, and pushed it into his hand. It burnt there and his cheeks grew hot. He could not bring himself to put it straight away into his pocket, but held it there in a sticky hand.

Where was his pride now? He looked across at the picture sticking to the wall and knew his pride was gone, yet scarcely felt its going in the thought of the work he had to do.

CHAPTER X

IT has never been suggested, even by those who knew and liked him best, that there was anything heroic in the life of Richard Furlong. Men are invariably selfish—artists inevitably so. If it can be said that they are generous at all, it is with their vitality, and in this Dicky perhaps was as generous, if not more so, as most of his type have been.

In those first days in London, when he lived over the oil shop in Drury Lane, he worked with a courage and energy that were astonishing when one regards the almost hopeless prospect that spread itself before him. Youth had much to do with it; but there was more than youth beside.

The temptation to return to the security and comfort of his home must have been well-nigh overwhelming at times. But the firm conviction of his own ability never left him for long. lie knew that one day he would paint a poster for Constance, one upon which every eye would be turned, and just as surely did he know that the very best of his work would eventually earn its recognition. There were moments, too, when he could regard his position from its humorous points of view; moments of good health and a hunger satisfied, and then he would laugh at the comic precariousness of it all.

Often, when in that mood, he wrote home to Dorothy Leggatt, never tellling her the true state of his affairs, but hinting that poverty was a fine school which had its cheerful intervals. And no doubt, on occasion, he believed that this was true; but there were long hours in that school when he sat wearily learning the lessons of courage and experience, and, symbolist and dreamer as he was, he must have gathered much then of the reality of life.

For another month he lived in Drury Lane upon the generosity of Constance. She gave him money every week, insisting always that it was in payment for the poster he was one day to do, convincing him against his better judgement that it was honestly and fairly come by. Hardest of all he worked that month, finding new meanings every day in the colour and life of the city of London.

I have seen the sketches he did then, and, though perhaps they are poor in technique, they are amazing in originality. All his mind, unhampered by training, he threw into his work at that time. And in later years, when, through conventionality, he had become a master of his medium, that freedom of originality was the lasting feature of everything he did.

This is a biography of a man and his mind, rather than of his work; and, even were I able, I do not feel competent to describe that work in detail. Whenever it is necessary, I shall give descriptions of those pictures I have known as illustrations of his development. But it is through circumstance and a power of will that a man becomes what he is, and this is a chronicle of circumstances alone.

With the assurance of money from Constance, he forgot to look for work that would give him remunerative employment, and so for much longer he might have continued in receipt of her bounty, had not events brought him suddenly to his senses.

One day in the early autumn he took her to Kew Gardens. Mrs. Baldwin made a parcel of sandwiches for them, and they set off alone. This was one of those days when the precariousness of existence appealed in all its sense of comedy to the mind of Dicky. his spirits were hilarious. In such a mood Constance must have admitted she liked him best. He made her laugh; his very boyishness was infectious. All that intensity of manner and seriousness of speech was gone from him then. So she liked him best because so she understood him best.

In the woods in Kew Gardens, where in Spring the blue-bells mass their blossoms till it seems the very air beneath the trees is stained with blue as well, they sat down to eat their lunch. The leaves of the beeches were turning to the first faint shades of orange. Now and again a gust of wind dis lodged one, to fall slowly, reluctantly, curling and fluttering to the ground.

As the first one settled on the grass, Dicky looked up into the beeches.

“I’ve been here just four months,” said he, “and the apples are nearly ripe at home. You should see the orchard, sloping down to the river there. Ever seen an apple tree in the autumn—a wild crab-tree In the hedges with all the fruit on it, just in the evening when the light’s beginning to go? The leaves go plum-coloured and brown, and yet they’re still green, and the little apples hang on the branches—all the colour of amber—like—like—oh —I don’t know what they’re like—!” He broke down with an excited gesture. The picture was vivid in his mind.

It was the energy, the vitality in his voice she sat so still to listen to. What he said about crab-apple trees meant nothing to her. She saw no more of green grass and the leaves of trees than what you find in the Embankment Gardens, and she was content with this from one year’s end to another. Only to please his fancy had she come with him to Kew Gardens that day. The idea had been his, not hers. But the sound in his voice, the glitter in his eyes, that attracted her. His broken sentences, when a despairing gesture brought them abruptly to an end; when, with a toss of his head, as though the words had utterly beaten him, he would say, “Oh—

I don’t know!” all this kept her eyes set upon his face. She may not have known what it meant, but she was conscious of the power of feeling behind, the overflowing vitality, the mind quickly sensitive even to the falling of a leaf.

“One of these days,” he went on, “we’ll go right out into the country, you and I—I’ll show you things—not the sort of things that Turner painted, but things like he’d have seen them if he’d been there. There was a chap for you!”

“Who?” asked Constance.

“Turner.”

“Who was ’e?”

“Turner? He was a painter. He could paint the sun and make you feel as if your eyes were going blind as you looked at it.”

“That’s a silly sort of picture to paint,” said Constance.

He looked at her as though he suddenly remembered she was there; then for a long time he said nothing. She knew she had said the wrong thing again, and swept her mind for something appropriate to say which would make him forget it. But nothing was there. It seemed foolish to talk about the oil shop in Drury Lane; still more out of place did it appear to refer to the Middlesex Music Hall. Yet beyond these two things in her life, there was nothing—except that she loved him. She had known that for some weeks, and, had it been any other of the men she knew, would have told him so. With Dicky it was different. This was not because of the other woman, but partly because she feared him.

Nevertheless, this being the only thought in her mind now, the sandwiches being finished, and Dicky having concealed the paper wrapping in the heart of a bramble bush, she came a little nearer to his side and said:

“Tell me a bit more about the country—where are we goin’?”

He looked into her green eyes and was not suspecting even yet.

“We’ll go one day next we^k,” he replied. “Where shall we go? I don’t know anything about the country near London. Wish we could go home. Think what the willows ’ud be like now on the Avon and the May trees—red and green. By Jovel Wouldn’t I love to show you it all.”

She leant forward suddenly and caught his hand.

“Let’s,” said she. “I’ve got the money for the tickets—what sport it ’ud be!”

It seemed natural enough that her hand was touching his; the thing to which he could not reconcile his mind was the thought of Dorothy and what it would seem to her if she saw him w’th Constance in the very lanes where they had walked.

And if they did go, which he knew was utterly impossible, how would they return the same night, or where would Constance stay if they came back the next day? So he played with the probability of the impossible, and, tempted to ask her what they would do. gave way, and found the words had ‘eft his lips before he could call them back.

“Oh, what does it matter where we’d stay!” said she. Mother ’ud never know’, and I don’t suppose she’d mind if she did. Mother likes you, yer know.”

So then he got an insight into the lawlessness of her morality, and, before he realised it, found her arms round his neck and her warm lips murmuring to his own.

“Do take me!” she whispered. “I want to see all the places you talk about—I shall understand ’em better then. I’ve never known much about the country, livin’ in London—see. We could go on a Sunday and come back on a Monday so as I’d be in time for me turn at the Middlesex. You will take me—won’t you?”

Dicky listened to the hot torrent of her words, and knew then the bitter impossibility of the position in wl ch he stood. lie was taking money from her; indeed, he was living on her money alone. Over and over again he had deceived himself into the belief that she was helping him because of his work. Now he knew the truth. It was because she loved him, and he had nothing to give in return.

With all unconsciousness, she was presenting her account, and he had nothing with which to meet it. His cheeks burnt hot, and even the passion which her kisses roused seemed shameful to his conscience then. He knew he was a debtor, dishonoured in his own eyes, perhaps dishonoured in hers as well. With the gentleness of contrition he took her arms away. He wanted to say that he was sorry, hut the words sounded caddish even in their silent utterance in his mind. He said nothing.

For a moment or two she sat and looked at him. weighing the situation in her mind, struggling against the pulse that was beating in her brain to know all that his silence meant.

“Yer don’t love me?” she said at last.

For an instant the thought that silence would answer for him prompted him not to speak. Then he felt the cowardice of that and said, “No,” with eyes that were honest to hers.

She stood up to her feet, smoothed out her skirt, and straightened her hat.

“Then let’s come out of this damned place,” said she, and Dicky followed her, feeling that the world w as crushing him on every side to nothingness.

CHAPTER XI

PRIDE and self-respect, these are the serious matters when your twenty years are coming just in sight. For all the occasional hilarity of his spirits, Dicky in these days was sadly wanting in a sense of humour. Nothing indeed was assured for him; everything w as a gigantic speculation. Any day he might be compelled to admit defeat and appeal to the generosity of his father to take him back to the Mill. It is scarcely to be wondered at that he regarded life with intensity, beset with such uncertainty of mind.

As he returned from Kew Gardens that evening with Constance, even late into that night, he fretted his soul to a fine depression.

Philosophy is the application of a sense of humour to the disproportionate seriousness of life. At the age of nineteen, Dicky had none of it. He criticised the relations between himself and Constance as though it were the first time in the history of the world that a man had ever taken money from a woman. He imagined no condemnation too strong for himself, and, the next morning, gathering together a dozen or so of the sketches he had made in London, he set off eager and determined to find a purchaser who would enable him to discharge his debt to Constance.

It was late in the afternoon, when he had been walking the whole day from one place to another without success, that he turned into the Waterloo Bridge Road. He had had no food since breakfast. In their trip the day before to Kew Gardens he had spent the last of the money that Constance had given him, and, after what had happened, was prepared to suffer any discomfort rather than ask her for more. The discomfort he was suffering then. He felt tired from hunger, but forgot all thoughts of it when he came to a shop in whose windows he saw water colours displayed for sale, at such prices as gave him to understand that this was not a picture dealer in the recognised sense of the word. His hopes rose as they had risen before. He had come to know by now that the real picture dealer would have little or nothing to do with him. This was the class of man he wanted, and, seeing a customer already within, he waited outside for the best part of half an hour until the shop was empty, and he found the owner by himself.

They called themselves the Waterloo Picture Framing Company. This was printed over the shop front; but Mr. Nibbs, who ran the business, had long ago found that the making of frames was not a paying proposition in itself. He bought the Christ mas numbers of the illustrated magazines and every month The Studio, framing the coloured pictures they contained ‘n neat little oak frames and putting them in the forefront of his window marked at catchy prices. These were just the kind of things to arrest the eye of the gentleman from the suburbs on the way down to Waterloo station to catch his train to Wimbledon and the south-west. With the coloured print of Grieffenhagen’s “Idyll” he had had continuous success. A framed copy of it always hung there conspicuously.

But the trade in pictures, reproductions or originals, was not enough to pay his rent. He took to selling old prints. In his younger days he had worked at a print-seller’s up West, touching up the prints that were damaged, restoring them to a saleable condition. lie knew the value of Bartolozzis; had seen the prices fetched by Borrow’s tail pieces. What is more, he had a love for these old engravings. “They did things well in those days,” he said, and he had a righteous contempt for the modern half-tone reproductions from photographs.

He knew where old prints were to be found, and he bought them. Seeing them in his windows for sale, strange people from strange places brought others for him to buy. He seldom sent them away without purchase, taking them just as they were in their old gold frames and placing them in his windows or hanging them on the walls of his shop.

When they needed restoration, he took them home with him to where he lived, in Greenwich, and worked on them there far into the night. Those that required touching up, he was always the more ready to buy. Their restoration gave him occupation in the evenings. Without work, he was one of those men who is lost. Energy and diligence, they glittered in his eyes.

After a time these strange people with prints to sell—the people who haunt the pawn shops, are down-at-heel and ill-equipped—brought him other things, because they had heard that old things had a market value. When he knew they were in want, Mr. Nibbs never sent them away without effecting some transaction. He knew nothing about china or about brass. Sheffield plate was only a name to him, but he bought everything that came in and put it in his window, labelling it with whatever description had been given him at the time of purchase.

Amongst all this nondescript collection of rubbish which at last he acquired you would find an odd piece of value here and there—a good old pair of brass candlesticks, a piece of china—you might never know. It was always worth your while to pay him a visit. In all that conglomerated mass of china and brass, electroplate and frames and pictures, with which he crowded his shop, you might discover something to your fancy. They were all cheap. He bought for little from those who had little, and he sold for little often doubtless to those who had much. There was nothing of the wily tradesman about him. He knew too little about the things he sold. If an article was plated with silver upon copper, he called it old Sheffield plate, for as such it had been sold to him.

He would point to the places where the copper had worn through and he would say:

“You see—copper, copper all through. They don’t plate silver on that sort of stuff now.”

And he would sell it for such a price as, if it had been genuine Sheffield plate, would have possessed you of a bargain to make your heart glad. Sometimes, moreover, it was genuine, but he never knew the difference. The little tricks of the business, the silver turn-over, the inset shield of silver, he had never heard of these.

There was the element of philanthropy, too, in all the purchases he made. They pitched him sorrowful tales, those strange people who came with their strange wares into his shop. Through the old horn spectacles that he balanced on his button of a nose, his eyes would twinkle with sympathy as he listened. It was not that he did not know the world well enough; he had been learning of it for fifty years, yet he still believed all he heard. Many a thing he bought with but the faintest expectation of selling again, because the owner had hinted of hunger, of children whose mouths must be filled.

Once, under such circumstances as these, he had bought an old milk jug that looked like pewter. It was bent and dented and disfigured. He had never hoped to see his money back on it again, but the woman who had brought it was near the birth of her child. She had just said, “Can yer give me two bob for this?” It had been enough for him, the sound of her voice, the look in her face. Without a word he had put down the two shillings on the counter.

Then, because it was new and there was room for it, he had put it in the window, and one day a dealer he knew came into the shop, asking to see it.

When he had examined it thoroughly the dealer looked up.

“What do you want for it?” he asked.

“What’ll yer give?” Mr. Nibbs enquired warily.

“Give yer fifteen bob.”

“It’s silver,” said Mr. Nibbs at a venture. It must have been silver or he would never have offered such a price.

“Yes, but very knocked about,” the dealer replied. “I’ll say a quid.”

“Two pounds,” said Mr. Nibbs.

“Right,” said the dealer, and Mr. Nibbs knew that he had been done, but he did not mind that. It had proved to him the reward of kindness. On the strength of that piece of good fortune, he never turned away anyone who was in want. The good fortune never occurred again, yet he spoke of that incident from one year to another, as though such things were happening every day. It became the cornerstone of his philosophy, to give people a hand whenever he could.

“Live and let live,” he would say. “Everybody’s as much right to existence as what I ’ave.”

And he had said this so frequently that in time he came to regard it as a saying of his own. From the corner where she sat in the shop, forever reading novelettes until it was time for her to go out on an errand, his wife would nod her head in approval of Mr. Nibbs’ philosophy. She agreed with everything he said—with everything he did.

It was this little man, then, with his love of prints and his generous philosophy, who made the first turning point in the beginning of Dicky Furlong’s life in London. This is the strangeness, the mystery in this eternal shuffling of the cards. You never know which will fall together. Even the hand that shuffles cannot decree. That is the joy of it. Fate is outside the law. Not even the discovery of a fourth dimension can ever reach its limitations. Chance is infinite.

As soon as the customer had come out of the shop, Dicky went in. Without curiosity, Mrs. Nibbs looked up from her corner over her novelette. Over his round horn spectacles, the round eyes of Mr. Nibbs glanced up as well. Before Dicky had spoken, he knew the object of his visit. It was not difficult to guess The slouch hat, the long hair, they proclaimed him. And, if he thought about it at all, Dicky preferred that they should. He was quite agreeable to being thought an artist, so long as it did not imply effeminacy, There was only that carelessness of dress, the suggestion of looseness about everything he wore which painters seem almost to find necessary to freedom in their work.

“Pictures?” asked Mr. Nihbs.

Dicky laid his portfolio down on the counter.

“You sell pictures, don’t you?” said he.

The little man nodded.

“I’ve got some of Thomas Parker’s in the window. I sell a lot of his—well—a lot? I sell a few.”

“I want you to have a look at these,” said Dicky. “They’re all done round about different parts of London.” He began to take them out, holding them up one after another and saying, “That’s down the Strand—that’s Westminster Bridge— that’s a bit of Covent Garden at four o’clock in the morning—just when they’re opening the market,” and so on, describing them all.

Mr. Nibbs settled his horn spectacles to his comfort and looked at them in silence. He was not sure what he thought of them. In fact, he was very uncertain. The work was strange to him.

With all of Thomas Parker’s, you could see what they were. The pictures of Venice, though he knew Thomas Parker had never been out of Lambeth in his life, they were all very accurate and like the places they represented. Gentlemen on their way to catch the train to Croydon, looking in to see him in a spare moment, had often said how like the place they were. Therefore, Mr. Parker continued in Lambeth to paint in Venice.

But these pictures of London, which he knew so well, were not quite recognisable to Mr. Nibbs. He was not aware that he had ever seen Westminster Bridge look quite like that; yet, as he stared at it, there was some thought stirring in his mind that you might see Westminster Bridge in such a way if you had the mind for it.

There was something about Dicky himself, too, which made him feel that the pictures might be good. Although he believed the work of Thomas Parker to be excellent, Thomas Parker himself never gave him the impression that it was. But Dicky, even in silence, forced his personality upon the little man. When he had made up his mind to say that he would not buy any that day he felt an uncomfortable sensation that he might be refusing a good thing and fervently wished that he did know more about painting. The circumstance which decided his refusal was that he had bought an old shagreen spectacle case that morning with old Georgian spectacles inside. This was partly because he liked shagreen, partly because he liked old spectacles. He always wore old ones himself. Most of all, perhaps, he had bought them because the man who had brought them ir. was blind of one eye and could not get any work to do.

“Somethin’ pathetic in a man blind in one eye cornin’ to sell a pair o’ spectacles,” he had said to his wife when the man had gone out with four shillings in his pocket.

“Yer won’t be able to sell them,” she had replied.

“No, I sha’n’t be able to sell ’em,” said he, “but I’ll put ’em in the window. ’E’s glad of the money —any’ow.”

So, having made one philanthropic purchase that morning, he was not eagerly disposed to make another. Moreover, there was nothing about him to suggest that Dicky was hungry. He looked a healthy boy. Still, he did not like refusing them, and, before a iinal determination, he took one up and showed it to Emily, his wife.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Westminster Bridge.”

“Is it?” she replied. Her eyes twinkled up at him because she thought it funny. There was nothing unkind or malicious in her mind. After that brief criticism, she went on with her novelette.

Mr. Nibbs came back to the counter.

“Afraid—I can’t buy any to-day,” said he. He hardly liked to look in Dicky’s face as he said it. “What are you asking for them?”

“Whatever I can get,” said Dicky, and all the day of trudging and disappointment that had gone before came back in a moment, crushing hope and casting all its weight upon his spirits.

There must have been this in his voice. His moods were always plain to anyone who chose to read them. Mr. Nibbs picked up the painting of the wagon load of flowers, trundling between the dirty houses of Long Acre. He knew he was going to buy a picture then. He knew he could not help himself. Live and let live was running quickly through his mind, because in Dicky’s voice he had heard the patient note of disappointment.

“I’ll give you ten shillings for this one,” he said. Emily looked up from her reading, but did not speak.

For the first moment Dicky was elated. Disappointment followed then as quickly in his mind. The little man had chosen the best of them all, but he had chosen it by accident more than intent. He might just as well have laid his hand upon another. Dicky had realised a two minutes that his powers of appreciation were inconsiderable. Yet he had selected the very painting in which lay Dicky’s pride. There may have been the element of chance in the work of it. With water-colour more than any other medium, there is a day when the gods are in your fingers. It had been his day when he had done this. He had put it in his portfolio because he wanted to show it, but to sell it for ten shillings, even though pride was at his elbow urging him to get money at any cost, this was more than he could bring himself to do. He took it up from the counter and looked at it with a feeling of pleasure he had no thought to conceal.

“I can’t sell this one,” he said at last. “Any of the others—the Westminster Bridge, the warehouses at Blackfriars—here, this one—Lambeth side—any of those you can have for ten shillings each.”

“Thought you wanted to sell,” said Mr. Nibbs.

“So I do—badly.”

“Got any money?”

Emily was listening now to every word.

“No.”

“Then why don’t you want to sell this one?”

“Because it’s the best thing I’ve done yet. I’m going to keep it myself.”

Mr. Nibbs cocked his head on one side, his eyes twinkled. He looked at Emily, he looked at the picture, he looked back at Dicky once more, his eyes dancing with amusement all the time. Then he put his hands inside the bib of his white apron and he burst out laughing.

“ ’Pon my soul!” he said. “ ’Pon my soul!” He gurgled with laughter again and swayed about with his merriment behind the counter. “Won’t sell me the picture I want because he thinks it’s too good. I can have the bad ’uns for ten bob a piece!”

“You didn’t know which was good and which was bad until I told you,” said Dicky. “Besides, they’re none of them bad—none of them as bad as your man Parker’s.”

Mr. Nibbs screwed up his eyes and in a moment the expression of his face changed to seriousness. He leant forward across the counter and, to Dicky’s amazement, he said:

“Ain’t he any good, then?”

From that moment began Dicky’s friendship with the little old print-seller in the Waterloo Bridge Road. There was something so unexpected, so ingenuous in his question that Dicky knew he was talking to one man in a thousand.

“Has he ever been to Venice?” he asked.

“How did you know?” replied Mr. Nibbs. “Well, Venice isn’t like that,” said Dicky. “You’ve been there?” said Mr. Nibbs.

“No,” said Dicky.

For the second time the little man threw out his stomach, threw back his head and chuckled with laughter.

“Emily,” he said, “how about tea?”

“Ready whenever you are,” she replied.

“ ’Ave a cup w’th us, Mr.—?”

“Furlong,” said Dicky.

“Then ’ave a cup of tea, Mr. Furlong?”

The feeling of hunger came back to him at the sound of it. He could only nod his head. When it occurred to him a moment later, he said, “Thanks.”

CHAPTER XII

MRS. NIBBS occupied a chair, while her husband and Dicky sat on boxes at the back of the shop. There they had tea. Out of the corners of his beady eyes the little print-seller noted the eagerness with which Dicky ate the plain, thick pieces of bread and butter. He saw the look of genuine satisfaction on Dicky’s face with each bite that he took. It was a look he recognised; a look he thoroughly understood. He had done right in offering ten bob for a picture, whichever one he was to get. But then it was infallibly right, to live and let live; he had never known that principle to fail.

There was, moreover, quite the human note in his philosophy. He was not charitable without curiosity. He wanted to know all about the people he helped, and he never forgot the numberless stories that had been told him. To recount them over and over again brought him an unfailing sense of gratification. This was the reward he took. If it be looked into, it will be seen how the most generous amongst us take our rewards in some one kind or another. This was the way Mr. Nibbs took his.

They had not been at tea for five minutes before he was uncomfortable with curiosity, and, in searching for the first question he might put, kept shifting his position on the box where he was sitting.

He had an uneasy sensation in his mind that Dicky, more readily than most of the people in whom he had been interested, would recogrise the curiosity in his questions, and, being the most palpable weakness in his character, curiosity was a failing he most vigorously denied. It was the one accusation which made him lose his temper with Emily, wherefore it was a weapon she only used with the utmost discretion.

Having tried various suppositions in his mind about Dicky and finding them all unsatisfactory, he at last threw out the question he had been burning to ask.

‘‘How is if you come to be so hard up?” he enquired. “What I mean, if you think your pictures are better than Thomas Parker’s, why don’t you sell ’em? He makes a livin’ out of ’is. Bit of the hand to mouth about it, but he does sell, there’s no doubt of that. I had a gentleman in here the other day, and he said he considered Parker did the prettiest pictures of Venice he’d ever seen, and he’s been to Venice himself. Well, I prefer Turner myself. I don’t think he always gets the place quite right, but I know he’s good, because everybody says so. I asked this gentleman if he didn’t like Turner better, but he’d never seen any of Turner’s—at least, not to his recollection. Still, if you think your sketches are better than Thomas Parker’s, I can’t make out why you seem to be so hard up. Haven’t you got any money at all?”

There was the note of curiosity. He could not keep it out of his voice. So often had she heard it that Emily took no notice of it then. She looked up, curious herself to hear what the answer would be. But to Dicky it was plain enough. Yet he felt no resentment at the sound of it. He had not forgotten that first impression of Mr. Nibbs—one man in a thousand—for, besides the note of curiosity, there was sympathy, too. He was not the kind of man who made you feel proud. Dicky had little hesitation in saying that he had not got a penny in the world.

Mr. Nibbs looked at Emily; with expectation she looked back at him.

“Well, what are we going to do?” said he, as though It were a family matter and must be seen to at once. And this was just what she had expected him to say. She had wondered what they were going to do herself. For there was this boy—he was only a boy—and she, too, had seen with what eagerness he had eaten that bread and butter. Something had to be done. With implicit confidence she left it to Mr. Nibbs to say what it was to be.

At last, by further questioning that was none too adroit, they learnt the whole story of Dicky’s ambitions. Somehow the round, beady eyes of Mr. Nibbs and Emily’s half-opened mouth as she listened encouraged in him all the enthusiasm of his hopes. He spoke of his work as he had had no opportunity of speaking of it to anyone since he had been in London. He had taken his hat off while he had tea, and, as he talked, held up at every moment for words with which to express himself, he ran his fingers wildly through his hair. As he watched him, Mr. Nibbs knew there was more of the artist in him than in Thomas Parker.

Now, if curiosity was one fault in the character of the little print-seller, there was yet another. He had a weakness for making discoveries. It was he who had discovered Thomas Parker, and, as may be supposed, the discovery was not of much value to anyone. Mr. Nibbs’ was one of those temperaments whose appreciations of art are unfairly handicapped by a total ignorance of what art really may be. He believed Thomas Parker to be good because he sold. He believed Turner to be a better painter because he had heard of the prices that a Turner would fetch. But it must not be supposed that his appreciation was a question of finance alone. The opinions of others weighed heavily with him, too, and it so happened that he had heard more praise of Turner than of any other artist whatsoever. Therefore, Turner was his standard of comparison for every artist who was brought to his notice. He had, in fact, done nearly as well with framed coloured prints of “The Fighting Temeraire” as he had with Greiffenhagen’s “Idyll”; yet he had never seen an original of Turner’s in his life.

However, if Ruskin had made the discovery of the greatest of all painters, he at least had discovered Thomas Parker. Quite seriously and with a twinkle of pride in his eyes, he would tell you this himself. And now he was on the point of making another discovery that bid fair to being of greater importance than any he had claimed before. As with many a man who:s deficient in education, his reasoning in all this matter was very much that of a woman’s. His instincts were acute. They brought him where a little education and a little logic could never have led him.

In this discovery, which I know in years afterwards he continued proudly to lay claim to, his first instincts were towards Dicky’s personality. Had Dicky told him that Turner was no good, he might almost have believed him. But when he spoke of the great man with a light of worship in his eyes, then Mr. Nibbs knew that Dicky was on the right track. He felt it proper, too, that this boy, with all his enthusiasm, should be hungry and without a penny in his pocket. He could see in years to come how he would be able to say that he had known young Furlong when he was penniless on the streets of London. And this indeed was often what he did say.

Then, lastly, there M as all the story before him of how Dicky had run away from the Mill; how, with those few pounds in his pocket, he had come to London without a soul to befriend him. Ail this convinced him that he was right. One thing only was there to disturb the firm conviction of his mind; it was that he could not persuade himself to a great appreciation of Dicky’s sketches. Even Emily had not recognised the picture of Westminster Bridge, and she was generally sharp enough at that sort of thing. However, Dicky himself believed in them; believed in them to such an extent that, though he was penniless, there was one he would not sell at any price.

As Mr. Nibbs looked at him he wondered it that really were so. Was there a man living who would not succumb to a fancy price? With a humorous impulse and a brighter twinkle in his eye, he led him back into the shop, picking up the sketch that still lay with the others on the counter.

“Look here now, Mr. Furlong,” he said, “I’ve taken a fancy for this sketch. What do yer want for it?”

Dicky shook his head.

“I don’t want to sell it—really,” said he.

“Give yer a pound,” said Mr. Nibbs.

This was the first appreciation that Dicky had ever received in his life. The remembrance of how his father had called his painting nonsense came warmly to his mind. If he could only hear the offer this little man was mailing now! For this indeed was appreciation. It was not the twenty shillings he counted, but the pound that stood for Mr. Nibbs’ approval of his work. Even at that stage Dicky knew, as every artist knows, the difference between praise and that appreciation which is expressed in terms of actual purchase.

He felt a thrill of pleasure at the sound of the sum Mr. Nibbs had mentioned, but it was not so great as that he could forget he wanted the picture for himself. He shook his head again.

“Well, thirty shillings, then?” continued Mr. Nibbs.

“No, really, I don’t want to sell it,” said Dicky. And all this while Emily’s eyes had been opening wider and wider. She was not perfectly sure which of the two had more completely lost his senses, but when her husband offered two pounds, then she was sure it was he. He had never paid two pounds for a picture in his life, and that which he was offering to buy now he would never be able to sell for more than fifteen shillings. However, she said nothing. She, too, had been impressed with Dicky’s personality, and it is probable may have guessed some of the thoughts that were passing through her husband’s mind. She had not known him for eighteen years without learning his weakness for the discovery of genius; therefore, it was a considerable relief to her mind when, in the tone of his voice, she realised that two pounds was the highest offer he intended to make.

And to this proposal Dicky had as yet said nothing. He could scarcely believe what he had heard. Two pounds was a sum beyond the wildest dreams of his expectation. He thought of the precedent it established in his mind, the appreciation of his work that it conveyed, and, lastly, of the money he would be able to pay back to Constance. Yet even then, running his lingers through his hair and turning his back on the temptation, he debated with himself whether he could really part with it or not. Realising the folly of it at last, he turned back with a gesture of resignation to Mr. Nibbs.

“All right,” said he. “I can’t refuse that—you can have it for two pounds. It isn’t worth it. I mean it isn’t worth it to you.”

Instead of being disappointed, as he had expected, Mr. Nibbs was satisfied that Dick} was no fool. It even began to dawn upon his mind that Dicky had possibly led him up to this extraordinary offer.

“You worked me up to that pretty well.” said he, and, though there had been nothing ungenerous in his mind, knew as he said it that it had been the wrong thing to say. For Dicky had snatched the sketch from off the counter, and his eyes were bright with indignation.

“I never worked you up to it!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t want to sell the picture, and I’m damned if I’ll sell it now. You can have your offer back again.”

Again the little print-seller was convinced he had made a discovery, and, though he was very much afraid that he was going to lose the picture altogether, he leant across the counter and his eyes were dancing with amusement.

“Give it back, Mr. Furlong,” he said with a chuckle. “Give it here. I know when I’m buying a good thing. Why, I’d have given you three pounds for it if you’d held out.”

“But you said I’d worked you up to it,” persisted Dicky.

“Ah—just my nonsense,” said Mr. Nibbs, and he appealed to his wife to say that that was always the way he went on, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she said it was. So Dicky handed the picture back again. Mr. Nibbs took it over to the window and looked at it more closely. Now that he was about to pay two pounds for it, he began to find more beauty in it than he had seen at first.

It was not a subject he would ever have thought of himself, but, seeing it there before him, there was certainly something about it. He could not explain what it was. For the idea of one of those wagons lumbering up Long Acre in the early morning on its way to Covent Garden was not one that appealed to him, yet as he regarded it he had pleasurable sensations. He thought involuntarily of that little patch of garden behind his house in Greenwich where he grew a few stocks in the summer, a few tulips in spring and the three or four clumps of chrysanthemums flowered well into December. He thought, too, of a well-filled garden he had once been taken to see when he was a child. He could not follow the association of ideas in his mind, but as he stood there under the light in the window, looking at the sketch in his hand, the feeling grew upon him that he liked it.

“What do you call this?” he asked presently, looking round. “ ‘On the Way to Covent Garden,’ I suppose. Something like that. ‘Oft to the Market,’ eh? That’s not a bad name for it—‘Oft to the Market.’ What do you call it?”

“I’ve called it ‘Fragrance,’ ” said Dicky.

The little man was silent. He looked back once more to the picture. Fragrance meant sweetness— a sweetness of scent. He tried to realise the aptness of that in relation to Long Acre, that street of dirty houses, and he failed. “Fragrance” was not the title he would have given it. Yet again, as he looked at it, came back the memory of that well-stocked garden. It was strange, after all, that he should have called it “Fragrance.” Now that garden was fragrant if you liked.

“Well,” said he, “I should have called it ‘Off to the Market,’ myself—and, mind you, I think I could sell it better if I called it that.”

Dicky smiled. “Unless you call t ‘Fragrance,’ I sha’n’t sell it to you,” said he.

The little man shrugged his shoulders, then, diving his hand under his apron, he brought out from his trousers’ pocket a well-worn leather purse. From this, without a word, he extracted two pounds and laid them on the counter. Emily watched these proceedings with interest. There was not a little that she lost by this transaction. There would be no picture palaces for them for the next three weeks or more.

“Well, what are we going to do?” asked Mr. Nibbs at last.

Dicky looked at him enquiringly.

“How do you mean?” said he.

“Well, you can’t live long on two pounds. Do you owe any money?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Nearly three pounds.”

“How soon must you pay it?”

“As soon as I can.”

“Well, then, you can’t live long on this. Emily”

—he turned to his wife—“how about old Marco? Has he found anyone yet?’’

She shook her head.

“Well, now, look here,” said he, “there’s a man lives near us at Greenwich—he paints pictures by the hundred and sells ’em by the hundred. They’re no good, yer know, not a bit of good. But he gets a price for them in the Caledonian Market and those auction rooms in the Strand. He asked me the other day if I knew anyone as could give him a hand, just to paint seas and skies and things like that—he does the finishing himself. They could stay in the ’ouse, he said, and he’d give ’em five bob a week for ’emselves. Now it’s not your sort of thing at all; but it’s something to do, ain’t it? You could afford to go to the schools then—at night. His wife helps him, but she’s a Frenchy; she’s a lazy creature.”

“She ain’t his wife,” remarked Emily.

“Well, she ought to be,” said Mr. Nibbs. “I always say she is. At any rate, he wants a hand. And that’s what you’d better do for a month or two, till you get your feet.”

Dicky could hardly believe his ears. He thrust out his hand across the counter and wrung the hand of Mr. Nibbs.

“I don’t know why you should do all this for me,” he said.

“Well, I’ve got a fancy for it,” said Mr. Nibbs, and that was about the best reason he could give. The whole of his life was a fancy. He comes in the class of those people called sentimentalists, which may be abuse of him to some, while it is a recommendation to others.

CHAPTER XIII

ALL the way back to Drury Lane Dicky’s spirits lifted to the tune of a song. People who passed him smiled at him in the street. There was no doubt he was pleased with himself. He had sold his first picture; he was Singling the money in his pocket, and the whole world spread no less before him then than did the vast breadth of London as he crossed the bridge back again into the Strand. And the thought of work cheered him still more. Now he would be able to attend the night schools. A thousand possibilities arose out of his imagination. He felt like one surrounded by a multitude of friends, all linking their arms in his.

Up Drury Lane, as he came near Covent Garden, a little girl on her way to the theatre caught the infection of his singing, smiled at the smile in hie face. He smiled back at her as they passed. Hearing her footsteps stop, he turned. She was looking after him. She was waiting to be spoken to. He lifted his hat and smiled again and laughed. She laughed, too, and beckoned with her head. He would have gone on. It was not greatly his desire to speak to her, but she took a step in his direction and with her head, her eyes, her lips she beckoned again. In the lightness of his spirits just then it would have amounted to a want of manners had he not turned back.

They met midway, and, feeling uncomfortable now, he raised his hat again.

“You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” she said with plenty of presence of mind.

“I’ve just sold a picture.” said Dicky.

“Thought you were an artist,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Your hair, I suppose.”

They both laughed at that, and, as their laughter ceased, fell into awkward silence. It was not her fault. She had done as much as could be expected of her. It was his turn to make the way easy; but Dicky was not accustomed as yet to these odd encounters in life. He just smiled at her again; smiled without conviction.

“Well, I’m just going down to the theatre,” said she to break the silence. “Come as far as the stage door?”

He shook his head. He had just sold a picture. He said he wanted to get back home.

She understood. He was not really interested; not so interested In her as she was in him. These things have to be borne with. So she just turned her head and said, “So long,” still cheeky, still with plenty of presence of mind, as she walked off.

Dicky continued his way back to Mrs. Baldwin’s. This little incident had amused him. It was even exhilarating; he felt it to be all in keeping with the glamour of the day. Some corner, somehow, had been turned. He did not know why it should have happened on that particular day or whether he had been instrumental in any way in its accomplishment. But there it was. A new road stretched out in front of him, and when he thought of leaving the oil shop in Drury Lane it was still with a feeling of exhilaration. It never occurred to him to imagine what distress it might bring to Constance. In fact, until that moment when he presented her with thirty shillings in part payment of his debt and saw the pained expression in her eyes, he had never dreamed what it might mean to her. He might even have thought she would be glad to get some of her money back—certainly never this, this look of pained bewilderment as though he had struck her.

She took the money in silence, as if it were an acceptance of the inevitable; then laid it down on the table by her side.

“Where’d you get this?” she asked. Half the hope perhaps was there that he had not come by it rightfully and she might yet he able to give it back.

His eyes took up again that look of excitement.

“I sold a picture,” said he, and expected her hand impulsively clasping his. He waited, but he waited in rain for a sign of her enthusiasm. Indeed, what did she care? For she saw the turning he had taken, too, and knew it led him away from her. With his debt discharged, what was there left to hold him? Willingly she would have Increased his obligations, to hold him if by his pride alone.

“Where did you sell it?” she persisted, still hoping and in doubt.

“To a little old print-seller in the Waterloo Bridge Road.”

“Did he give you all this for it?”

“He gave me two pounds. I’ve kept ten shillings.”

Two pounds! For one of those paintings that he did! Certainly she believed in him, but there was not a picture he had ever done for which she thought anyone would pay two pounds. She was all wrong, then. She did not know what a picture was worth or when it was good. But he knew. That was why he persisted in doing them. Her turn at the music hall suddenly seemed intensely futile to her, By hard work she made thirty shillings a week; but in a week he could paint three of those pictures of his.

She knew then how surely he was slipping away from her. She could be no help to him now. He was her man no longer. This was the turning Dicky had taken. From that moment he began to belong to himself. It brought no more surprise to her mind, only a greater chill to her heart when she heard that he was going at the end of that week.

“Sha’n’t see no more of you after that, I suppose,” she said firmly.

“Why, of course,” he exclaimed. “Why shouldn’t I see you again? I’m only going down as far as Greenwich. That’s not a long way off, is it?”

“It ’ud be much the same if it was the next street.” said she bitterly. “You won’t come this way no more. The Lane’ll be a damn sight too poor a place for you. It ain’t your fault. I’m not sayin’ anythin’, blamin’ yer. You’ve sold a picture, and that’s made all the difference—‘asn’t it? I don’t say you won’t come because I’m no more good to yer—but yer won’t come. Why, there’s a girl at the Middlesex now, ’er fellar’s got a turn at the Pavillion, and do yer think he comes to fetch ’er of a night like ’e did when ’e was playin’ at the ’Olborn? My dear boy. t ain’t the distance of streets as makes the difference—it’s the distance inside yer.”

And Dicky knew it was all true—every word of It. He was not doing it himself—circumstance was there to do it for him. He had turned a corner. He had sold a picture. There was a new and a different world before him now. Yet he made the best face of it a man can make. He put out his hand, not because he felt pity for her, but because he felt ashamed of himself.

“You’ve been a tremendous brick,” he said gently, “and I’m going to paint that poster for you one day.”

It was a poor offer to make to her. Feeling there was but little profit in it himself, it was yet the best he could say.

She sat back on the table for a moment, looking at him, and then she burst out laughing.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t take it so seriously!” she exclaimed. “After all, what’s it matter one way or another? Even if you’d taken me out into the country for that week-end and wanted to ’ook it now—it wouldn’t ’ave made much difference, would it? But you ain’t even done that. You’ve got nothing to fret about, and yet to look at yer one’d think you was getting all the losing.”

Then suddenly the laughter went out of her eyes as well. The look of an animal in its hunger glittered there instead. She leant forward and stretched out her hand.

“But I will go away for the week-end,” she said thickly. “You can take me if you like, and then you can go off to your Greenwich and never see the Lane again—not if yer don’t want to. I’ll never call yer back.”

This was the high summit of her nature—the best, the very best she had to give. Her eyes were alight as she offered it. She knew she could give no more.

And Dicky stood there rocking in his mind, his thoughts unsteadily trampling down all reason, out-sounding the cry of conscience to a far thin voice.

This is not the way a woman moulds a man, but who can deny that this is not in all men’s making?

She caught the sight of a look in his face and took it for what it was worth. He tried to hold her back, but her arms were unresisting.

Dicky had turned a corner. He had sold a picture. In this fashion he entered the new world that lay before him.

CHAPTER XIV

FROM that row of old houses known in Greenwich as Ballast Quay you may see the wide, bright stretch of the river as far as Limehouse Reach. There it bends away to the right and you can follow it no more. Only the tall arms of Tower Bridge lifting upwards out of the smoky haze will give you the direction of its journey then, and beyond that, on a gray day, all the city is caught up into the misty horizon. But when the sky is clear the buildings of Westminster can be seen like palaces of gossamer that appear and disappear as if by magic, in obedience to a magician’s wand. For the smoke clouds are always drifting across London, now concealing, now disclosing, as beautifully, is mysteriously as the work of any wizard in a land of fairies.

This is a London that only the workmen and the watermen ever see. Greenwich is not the place of holidays and excursions that it was. The giant factories with their blazing furnaces, the towering chimney stacks, pouring forth their smoke offerings to the overburdened sky, these are the things that have driven people from their fish dinners at the “Ship,” yet these are the very things making Greenwich beautiful.

There by those waters it is a river full of the mystery of adventure. All day long and all right the wash of the steamers putting out to sea, of the steamers coming into dock from every wonderful quarter of the earth, laps with its soothing monotony against the river walls. By day and by night there is never a moment but what the urging bow of some vessel turns the point, going whither, coming from whence, unless you are a waterman you might never know. There life is all the end or the prelude to adventure, and ever above the far, dim note of the distant city rise the voices of the river craft, high and low, harsh and sweet, as the brown-sailed barges drift and the tugs go chasing by.

They are so numerous, these voices; their cries are as varied as the cries of the streets. Never is the river truly silent. From the dull moan of the swinging boom, as the great barge puts about against the wind, to the lion-throated horn of the liner as she roars her passage through the tiny craft, there is always a story to listen to, some tale in its inimitable telling.

As night falls and the tall chimneys retreat into the darkness the watchful eyes of the ships, now red, now green, now gold, all sway and glitter with the wash of the tide. In great hoards the barges lie, guarded by their lights. In those masses they are like reptiles huddling close for warmth. And all night long the voices murmur or they cry. The tug, in all her impudence, shrieks out her petulant note. Up and down the dark waters the police launch creeps, with softened footsteps as a policeman on his midnight beat. Late on the tide a barge swings down, full broadside on the running stream. With shouting voices and the clank of chains, the snort of donkey engines and the dull thud of the grinding screw, a steamer turns into her bed in dock. And then, towards morning, comes a hush, that still, faint hush you hear in London streets— a deep breath it might almost be before the sun is up and the metallic sounds of day break out once more.

This is the Greenwich of the waterman, of all those forever going down to the sea in ships. But there is another Greenwich which, because of his familiarity with it, doubtless the waterman seldom sees, f or when the sun lends its gold to the drifting smoke and the smoke lends its mystery to the sun, all those factories and chimneys, all those gigantic sheds by the wharf side, those towering cranes and overreaching derricks become minarets and palaces in the magic light.

Then it is a Venice built of iron, yet just as mysterious, just as elusive as that marble Venice of a more romantic age. No domes of churches lift into the smoky sun, but in all their stern majesty those iron temples of strenuous worship, sending up the smoke of their incense to the tireless God of toil. No gondolas are there, skimming the water to a pliant oar, but the black barges, sinking heavily in the stream, drift just as silently on the tide. And that leaning figure of the oarsman, cut in silhouette against the light, he is the gondolier of this iron Venice, riding the broad water into the dim purple of the mist.

And here it was, at perhaps the most impressionable period of his Hfe, that D’.cky came in hot pursuit of his ambition. It is not to be wondered at that Greenwich, indeed the whole riverside proved so powerful an influence in his early work. The figures to which he inclined were all the river types, and for many years there was the sign of roughness and boldness in every figure drawing that he made. Doubtless it was these surroundings, also, which, apart from the influence of Mr. Nibbs and his prints, gave him the suggestion for his wood-engravings, by which alone he might be remembered. The massive qualities of those foundries and the gigantic sheds on every wharf lent themselves willingly to his mind for the work he then pursued. And it was all the mystery of atmosphere combined with these that made him first see how coloured wood blocks need not rely on form alone for the beauty which they gave. It was he who first realised that tone and mystery could be produced from the unyielding material in which he chose to work.

His wood-engraving—“The Scavenger”—with its massive dredger lying in the Thames, has all the atmosphere of any painting in oil. The lines of the vessel, with just the circle of one of the giant pails cut out against the sky, stand forth with all the clearness you would expect from such material as wood. But on beyond this grim and iron thing there spreads the golden light of Limehouse Reach, and London lies upon the horizon like a sleeping city, wrapped in all the mystery of ts coverlet of smoke.

One evening early in the week, when his work in the shop was finished, Mr. Nibbs took Dicky down with him to the house on Ballast Quay where this Monsieur Marco lived. As they came out of the shop the little print-seller stood still and turned Dicky’s attention to the window. In a plain gold frame there hung his picture in the most conspicuous position, outplacing Thomas Parker’s and all the coloured prints in their fumed oak frames. Beneath it on a card was written, in what Mr. Nibbs called his shop-window hand, “A fine original water-colour—Fragrance—by Richard Furlong— Cheap—Two pounds ten.”

Dicky stood and looked at it, overcome by those pleasurable sensations of importance which can never be so great again as on one’s first acquaintance with them. He had never seen a picture of his framed before; he had never seen his own name writ up to catch the public eye. Possibly he felt as great in that moment as ever he did when he reached the highest summit of his career. He laughed a little foolishly as he looked back at Mr. Nibbs. It was very difficult to be quite himself, for he was not himself. The story of Elijah caught up into the heavens on a chariot of fire occurred to his mind in likeness to himself, and his smile became a laugh —a nervous laugh—as he wondered whether even Elijah had behaved quite naturally under the circumstances.

“It looks jolly well framed, doesn’t it?” he said at last; “much better, even, than I thought it was. I like it awfully. It looks ripping. Don’t you think you’ll sell it easily enough if you keep it there?”

Mr. Nibbs nodded his head dubiously.

“It all depends,” said he; “all depends who sees it. The centre of the window ain’t always the best place. Some people like findin’ what they’re goin’ to buy—they don’t want to ’ave it pushed in front of ’em.”

But Dicky hardly heard what he said. He was lost in admiration of his picture—an admiration that did not satisfy but spurred him on to higher endeavour. He wanted to get to it then and at once. and, taking the arm of Mr. Nibbs, he pulled him away. And the little print-seller walked by his side in such fashion as that Dicky might continue to hold his arm. lie was seriously thinking how one day he might say that young Richard Furlong had walked through the streets of London with him, arm in arm. His belief in his discovery was as strong as that.

That Monsieur Marco had been expecting them, and, when they knocked at the door of his house on Ballast Quay, he was not long in opening it.

At most there are not more than ten in this little crescent of houses that fronts the river looking across the broad stretch of water towards the West India Docks. For a hundred and fifty years, perhaps, they have been standing there, quite near to old Trinity Hospital, and not a thing in them, I have any doubt, has been changed. They wear the same old Georgian bowed windows, reminding you of the high stocks worn by the men of that period, with the small bowed balconies below, as though like the black cravats of the time. They are only two stories in height, but the ceilings are lofty within. Perhaps they had a certain quiet grandeur once, were enviable houses in which to stay when Greenwich claimed the fashion it has lost. But they have no grandeur, only quietness now\ Some let their rooms, and the others who have avoided this necessity make no pretence to high estate.

Only Monsieur Marco, amongst all those families on Ballast Quay, presumed to be anything better than he was. He, indeed, would have nothing to do with his next-door neighbours, and they, in fact, would have nothing to do with him. Madame Marco wore no wedding ring. Certainly she wore many rings which everyone had seen; but it was Mrs. Henniker, who kept a general shop in a small alley behind the Trafalgar Hotel, who had observed that, amongst all these gee-gaws, the wedding ring was conspicuous by its absence.

“I looked, rny dear,” she told her friend, Mrs. Weyburn, “I looked carefully—because these foreigners do live queerly—I’ve ’eard it said often. You’d ’ave thought she m.ght ’ave worn one only for appearance, or to ’ave a keeper for them rings she ’as—but there wasn’t no sign of it.”

And Mrs. Weyburn, who lived at number four of the Quay, was a talkative little person. She warned the Quay at once, and the Quay ignored Monsieur Marco as persistently as Monsieur Marco ignored the Quay. Whenever h’s good lady came out into the street there were eyes behind white lace curtains to watch her—women’s eyes, for it seems women are most interested in those women they condemn. And she was quite well aware of those eyes. She liked them; smiled to herself when she saw a lace curtain quiver or heard a window open up above. It meant that they had called all the way upstairs that Madame Marco was going by— for when they did not speak of her as “that woman,” Madame Marco was the name they gave her. So she would walk down past the whole row of houses, in those different gowns of hers, always a trifle overdressed. And if she walked slowly it must be excused of her. She liked these little attentions so much. She liked the politeness of Mrs. Henniker, whenever that good lady served her over the counter in the general shop. She liked the envy and admiration in Mrs. Henniker’s eyes as she gazed at the rings on her fingers. None of the stones was real, hut she knew Mrs. Henniker was not aware of that. Nothing, in fact, was real about Madame Marco at all, nor about Monsieur Marco either; but so long as they carried their deceptions with success they were both as happy as if they owned all the riches they pretended to display.

It was known by no one on Ballast Quay, and I am sure that few are aware of the secret beside myself, but that Monsieur Marco was none other than the Signor Pelloni who some three years before had practised his mesmeric tricks upon a credulous public in London. He had described himself as having all the diplomas and qualifications of a medical man, obtained in Italy, who, having perfected the practise of mesmerism, had come before the public to give them the manifold benefits of his research.

For some months he pursued a successful career, partly by the aid of accomplices, of whom Madame Marco—in those days Signurina Allievi—was one; partly by that consummate art of braggadocio of which he was a master. In time they found him out. The medical profession exposed him. He was hunted out of London by all those credulous patients he had deceived. What became of him for those three years I have never been able to trace, and then at last, describing himself as an artist, he appears once more as that Monsieur Marco and takes a house on Ballast Quay.

They merely knew him as an artist there; but of the kind of pictures that he painted only Mr. Nibbs, the little print-seller, was aware. Why he had called himself Signor Pelloni, or why Monsieur Marco, it would be almost impossible to say. He had been born at Cricklewood, when Cricklewood was the outskirts of London and looked across the green fields to the little village of Edgware—which is not really so very long ago. His name was Cheeseman—truly a name that any man might drop. He was of humble origin, too; for his father was a little cobbler who sat on his haunches in the window of his shop and stitched leather from morning till night.

But this was a trade that Emanuel had no wishfulness to pursue. There was the divine, perhaps the satanic, spark of temperament in his composition. He began by deceptions with the very boots he made, until a customer discovered how he had been imposed upon, and his father turned him out of the shop, prophesying no good for this son who, in the religious devotion in his heart, he had called Emanuel.

Thrown thus upon the world, he soon learnt that the name Emanuel, coupled with that of Cheese-man, was not the one to succeed. It carried no conviction with ‘t to his mind. It was the foreign suggestion of his black hair and small brown eyes which doubtless prompted him to his first assumption of a foreign name. For, though he had never been out of London in his life, he began at an early age to call himself by names either Italian or French, according to his purpose. No doubt he was influenced in this by the period in which he served as English waiter in a small French restaurant, one of the first that started:n Soho.

In that restaurant, attending to any of the English customers who chanced to come in, he remained for at least a year Again for a period after that you lose sight of him. Then, with his hair grown longer, looking more foreign than ever, he was to be seen singing in the streets. He had no voice to speak of, yet a certain trick of producing it earned him a lively income. Here again he deceived the public. The look he could put into his eyes, as he sang the sentimental love songs of the day, the cunning way he took his voice from tenor to falsetto whenever a note was to be reached, these were the little things that made him popular wherever he went.

And then a bout of wet weather, a terrible chill, followed by pneumonia, finished bis career as a singer. After this he took the name of .Signor Pelloni, and, with tricks he had learnt from a Spaniard in Soho, he began his practice as a mesmerist. If his success in this capacity lasted nine months, it certainly was no longer. But in that short time he must have amassed a considerable amount of money, for his disappearance for three years seems to mark the period during which he was living at his ease. Finally he comes to this painting of pictures—by the hundred, as Mr. Nibbs had justly said, and selling them by the hundred, too. What was most extraordinary in the character of this Monsieur Marco was the extent to which he took himself seriously in all his various practices of deception. It was never in the nature of him to accomplish anything by honest measures, so that in time he comes to regard his powers of deceit as seriously as the true artist considers his own sincerity.

This, then, was the man, eaten up with the conceit of his own accomplishments, who comes into the life of Dicky Furlong and adds that link to the whole chain of circumstance without which this history would be incomplete.

CHAPTER XV

WHEN you consider that the name of the man was Emanuel Cheeseman, that he was the son of a little cobbler in Cricklewood, and that he had never been out of London in his life, his welcome to Dicky in the character of Monsieur Marco, the artist, if eccentric, at least was masterly. Seizing both of Dicky’s hands in his, he wrung them warmly, then affectionately laid an arm on his shoulder.

“Brothers—eh, Mr. Nibbs?” he said, and there was even the trace of a foreign accent in his voice, that accent which, with patient application, he had acquired during his servitude in Soho. For this was another peculiarity in his temperament. He had the genius for taking pains, but only in the deceits he practised. As a singer, he never learnt to sing, only to master those little tricks by which he made the public—his public of the streets—believe he had a fine voice. So, with infinite trouble, he had rid himself of a cockney twang and assumed this foreign accent in its place.

“Brothers of the brush, Mr. Nibbs,” said he, rolling his r’s; “the older brother and the younger brother—eh!”

Then, striking an attitude of protection, he regarded Dicky with a genial expression of camaraderie.

“It’s a noble profession, my boy,” said he; “noble but poorly paid. If I sent my pictures to the Academy, believe me, I should be a rich man. But what is the Academy to-day? What is it? The trademark—do I mean the hallmark—the hallmark of—of—ineptitude.”

He stood away and watched the effect of that last word upon Dicky’s mind. But Dicky was too bewildered by these effusions to be capable of any impression. So Monsieur Marco turned his glance upon Mr. Nibbs. But Mr. Nibbs knew well enough that all this was nonsense—just Monsieur Marco’s talk. He listened stolidly and blinked his eyes.

“You don’t believe what I say!” exclaimed Monsieur Marco. “You’re thinking of those pictures I paint to sell—those terrible, terrible things—

Oh, my God, man! don’t think of them! They make my living—that is all. A man must live, Mr. Nibbs. But have you seen my portrait of Madame Marco? Have you seen my portrait of the King, for which he gave me six sittings as long as two years ago? No—you have not seen them. I do not boast about the things I do. They are there in my studio. Do I show them to you? No! But they have my heart in them, Mr. Nibbs. I am painting Madame Marco again now—the tout ensemble, the glorious altogether! But would she let me show it? No! She is so shy—with that figure! A Venus, Mr. Nibbs, but shy and modest as a little girl. And you would judge me by these pot-boilers that I do to make my living!”

In despair and disgust he turned away. Even Mr. Nibbs was impressed by his grief, and Dicky felt that the wretched man’s life was a tragedy.

“Why don’t you sell your portrait of the King?” he asked.

Monsieur Marco turned on him in an instant. “Sell my portrait of the King!” He exclaimed. “To whom? I ask you to whom? To the nation! Yes! But would they buy it? No! Why, my dear boy, you will learn in good time that this England of yours has no more art in its noddle than I have in the tip of my little finger. What do they buy? Sargents, if they can get ’em. Watts, Turner, Rossetti!”

DiJcy’s eyes lit up.

“What have you got to say against Watts and Turner?” he exclaimed.

The wise Monsieur Marco understood the look in his eyes and bowed in submission to their superiority.

“Great men, my boy. great men. But who recognised them? No one. That’s the fate of all fine artists. Never—never should I dream to call myself a fine artist—but that’ll be my fate, too. Well —well—let’s come and have our meal. There are sausages for supper.”

All this while they had been standing in the narrow hall, but at the thought of chat delicacy for supper he rubbed his hands and led the way into the dining-room, where Madame Marco was already pouring out the tea.

“My darling,” said Monsieur Marco with a fine gesture, “our little brother of the brush.”

Dicky stood in the doorway, confused, just conscious that a little woman, who was none too slight and none too young yet as fascinating as any woman he thought he had ever seen, was smiling at him so engagingly that first he smiled and then he looked away.

“Kiss your little brother, my darling,” said Monsieur Marco; “brother and sister. It is the right thing to do. One kiss, my dear,” and, taking the arm of Mr. Nibbs, he stood by, chuckling pleasantly to see his command so willingly obeyed. For without a moment’s hesitation she came prettily to Dicky’s side. lie felt a soft, round cheek pressed against his own and two lips meeting on h-.s. When she stood back, his own cheeks were crimson, and they all laughed. Even Mr. Nibbs gurgled in his throat. But to Dicky, who had not yet found his sense of humour, it was a terrible moment that. He was heartily glad when they all sat down to table and a steaming plate of sausages and mashed potatoes was placed in front of him.

All through the meal Dicky slowly emerged from the confusion of his mind. Madame Marco fascinated him. She was just that age inevitably attractive to a boy as young as he. But all the time he kept wondering how Monsieur Marco could speak of her as a Venus. She was so plump and good-natured that the comparison seemed almost ludicrous. He ascribed it to Monsieur Marco’s foreign ways. There was no doubt that his deception in this was successful. Everyone did take him for a foreigner, an illusion that found every support in the evident nationality of Madame Marco herself.

She indeed was French, though no history discloses her name before she took that of Madame Marco. His constant association with her doubtless accounted for the perfection of his imitation. Indeed, if by this time it was imitation at all, then it was almost unconscious. He never lapsed into the cockney twang, never made any mistake of speech, and always accompanied everything he said with such spontaneous gestures as deceived everyone who knew nothing of his past.

When supper was over they all climbed the stairs to the top of the house, where was the low-ceilinged attic which Monsieur Marco called his atelier. Following in the rear of this procession with Dicky, Mr. Nibbs found the opportunity of catching his arm and whispering in his ear.

“Remember, mind,” said he, “I told yer he was no good. But don’t you let ’im think yer know it. It means five bob a week to you and a night class at the art schools.”

It was wise advice to Dicky, who, when it came to pictures, was always ready to say exactly what he thought. But even with this warning of Mr. Nibbs, he was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes. On the four walls of the attic were pinned long strips of canvas, not more than two feet wide. All of these were in various states of preparation for the hundreds of pictures that Monsieur Marco painted, for the hundreds of pictures that he sold. On one strip nothing but broad lines of sea and sky were visible, the canvas divided into two parts to carry these two mighty elements. Dicky was just conscious that it was sea and sky, because the deep blue of the sea was covered with lines of ripples in mathematical precision, and the paler blue of the sky was flecked and dotted with conventional white clouds. On the next wall the canvas was more advanced; great cliffs towered out of the water, dim distant headlands lay on the horizon. Still on another wall was a strip of canvas nearer completion. The cliffs were filled in with detail. Huge boulders rose one above the other, crowned with shrubs in flower that never grew except in Monsieur Marco’s atelier. Then, lastly, on the fourth wall, the wall on which all the genius of Monsieur Marco was employed, there was the finished article—a strip of canvas covered from one end to the other with these lines of cliff and sky and sea. But here there were sea-gulls flying; ships were being wrecked or riding gaily with white sails on the sea of royal blue.

From one stage to the other Dicky turned and looked at them; from one stage to the other they became more impossible in’ his eyes. He struggled to remind himself of that five shillings a week, and. realising at last that his silence was a more damning criticism than anything he could have said, he forced himself to show some interest in this preposterous exhibition.

A sense of humour would have saved him there again, but he took it all seriously, wondering why the struggle in life should be so hard as to condemn him to such work as this. However, there was Monsieur Marco waiting, with hands on his hips, his long hair thrown back, his eyes glistening with pride at the ingenuity of his work. They all stood and looked at Dicky, curious or eager, while in Madame Marco was a pretty indifference to what he had to say.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand it,” he said at last. “Don’t you ever construct your pictures?”

And this—almost these very words—was just what Monsieur Marco had been waiting for. He slapped Mr. Nibbs on the shoulder and he beamed with delight.

“The very thing,” he exclaimed, “the very thing I should have asked myself! But. that, my boy, is where the cleverness of it all comes in.”

He took a large scissors out of a small drawer, and, brandishing them excitedly before Dicky’s face, he said:

“Here’s the little instrument I do all my construction with. They all do it, but they wouldn’t admit it. A cut too much, a cut too little, and the picture i spoilt. Now watch this. This canvas was dry to-day.”

He ripped one end from the fourth w all and, applying the scissors with a certain amount of care, he cut off about half a yard. Without showing it to them, he picked up an empty gold frame that leant against the wall and fitted the picture within. Then he held it up for all of them to look at.

It was such a picture as you see in public houses, in country inns, in the drawing-rooms of suburban villas, on the walls of artisans’ cottages. There was the steep wall of cliff with its gaudy ornamentation of flowering shrubs and gorse; there were the conventional gulls flying above the conventional water, the impossible ship riding on the impossible sea. Many was the time Dicky had stood in front of such a picture in the houses about Eckington, wondering who pointed them, how there could live a man who had the patience to paint such trash. Now he knew, and he himself had entered into that man’s service.

“Well,” said Monsieur Marco, “what do you think of it, young man? Say your mind out. Ami afraid of criticism, my darling?” He turned with a loving gesture to his wife. “Am I greedy for praise?”

She shook her head, then laid it on his shoulder. Rut there was a twinkle in her eyes which no one saw as she idly watched Dicky’s face.

“Well,” repeated Monsieur Marco, “out with it. You don’t like: it—eh?”

His tone of voice had subtly changed now with the prolongation of Dicky’s silence. Madame Marco knew that change so well, and even Dicky was dimly conscious of what it meant. At last, with a note of conviction that was forced from him by the irony he felt, he exclaimed: “I think it’s marvellous!” At which Monsieur Marco threw his arm round his neck and told him they were going to be as fond of each other as two brothers.

When he had gone to bed that night in the attic room that had been allotted to him, Dicky hid his face in his hands and cried, more from shame than disappointment. It was the insult to his ambition which he could not bear, for it wants the experience of years to know that ambition is like religion, needing the buffeting of adverse circumstance to give it lasting power. Such experience as this Dicky had not yet won. lie thought that night as he lay awake that there was no hope for him in these surroundings.

Indeed, it was only after some years that he came to realise the full value of those days in Monsieur Marco’s atelier.

CHAPTER XVI

FOR five shillings a week, his food, and a bed in an attic room of that house on Ballast Quay, Dicky was expected to do the work which Madame Marco had done before him. His duty it was to paint the skies, the seas, and all the foundations of landscape which Monsieur Marco’s cunning brush completed. And it was not long before he found that other things were expected of him, too. He had to run errands, to help in the kitchen, fetch Monsieur Marco’s slippers of an evening, and, when this was done, betake himself to the Crown and Thistle for that pot of beer in which Monsieur Marco drowned all the cares of the day and brought himself to a fine condition of good temper.

And all these inferior duties Dicky cheerfully accepted for the sake of that five shillings and the opportunity it gave him to join the art schools. The first moment that he could afford It he entered the night classes at the Polytechnic, where every evening, after his duties were over, he worked for two hours with all the energy and tirelessness of which his youth was capable.

These days in his life are the making of the man when he is so many times more interesting than in the full tide of his success. The clock would be on the stroke of eleven, the house in darkness, and the sounds of Monsieur Marco’s heavy sleeping reverberating like thunder before Dick renamed, tired and exhausted, from his work.

On the table in the dining-room he always found a plate of sandwiches, which, however nasty they were, made good eating at that hour of the night. This was the expression of Madame Marco’s gratitude for the work he had taken from her shoulders. For since he had come she could spare the time to put on her gaudy dresses and walk slowly down of an afternoon past all the houses on the Quay, and from thence on to the Greenwich High Street, where people turned to look at her. So she kept fresh in her mind that knowledge of how attractive she was, and, when occasion presented itself, she would take a tram up to London to walk in the streets there, too, and look in the shop windows. Gentlemen sometimes spoke to her, and, though she turned away without answer, these little attentions were very pleasing. After such incidents as these she would come home to Monsieur Marco that evening and be more affectionate and attentive than ever.

Dicky himself interested her, too. lie was young. She expected little flatteries and gentle recognitions from him, and, when she did not get them, began to regard him with greater interest still.

It became obvious in time to her that he was in love, and, in her idle, sensuous way, she thought of him with amusement as a lover. He would be hotheaded, passionate and impetuous. Across the table at meals, when neither he nor Monsieur Marco were watching her, she would look at the sensitive curve of his lip, at the bright glitter of his eyes and that half-puritanical expression of reserve he always wore when in repose. She admitted to herself it would be amusing to see him make love; to be at a safe distance and watch that flash of his eyes with which in every argument they swiftly lighted up. There was too much lethargy in her nature to wish that she might kindle these emotions on her own behalf. She was one of those women whose passions are mostly curiosity, and when, as time slipped by, Dicky did not come to her with his confidences of his own accord, she set out to discover them herself.

It was one morning when Monsieur Marco had taken up a great batch of his pictures to Town that she put on one of her best dresses, which, had she known it, was her worst, and, mounting the stairs, rapped gently on the door of The Studio.

Almost before the sound of Dicky’s voice had answered her, she had entered to find him sitting disconsolately on the floor.

“Tired?” said she.

He jumped at once to his feet, and she smiled. After the ponderous good intentions of Monsieur Marco—intentions that were never fulfilled—manners like these were quite charming to the little lady. But she liked him better at his ease, so, dropping herself unceremoniously on to the floor with little, or perhaps with careful, consideration as to the way her ankles were disclosed, she bid him sit down again beside her.

“You’re an artist,” said she. “I prefer you on the floor. Don’t you like this business—heh?”

She nodded prettily with her head, to the long strips of canvas; she sniffed with her nose at the pervading smell of paint.

All this encouraged confidence, persuaded honesty. After two hours’ work, Dicky had thrown down his brushes just before she came in. and there had almost been tears of despair in his eyes as he sat down, exhausted, where she had found him on the floor.

“I can’t do it,” he said suddenly, feeling safe with her. “I can’t take any interest, can’t put my heart into it—it’s—it’s—such-”

“‘rash?” she suggested, and her eyes twinkled. “I didn’t say so,” he replied, half-laughing.

“No—but why do you do it? Heh?”

“Because it pays for my term at the school. I’ve got to learn to make my living, and I’ve got to make it at the same time. Do you know, I’ve been nearly six whole months in London, and all that time I’ve done nothing.”

“Nothing?” She arched her eyebrows, and, to one with more experience of the world than Dicky, need have said no more than that. But it was easy to see that he was still thinking of his work, sublimely unconscious of her blandishments. “Not even fallen in love?” she added.

He locked up quickly to her eyes and read there her invitation to his confidence. It was a dainty invitation, too: full of promises of sympathy and generous in understanding. Another moment and he was telling her all of Dorothy, opening out his heart, disclosing the deepest corners of his emotion.

She smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled as she listened. It was just as she had expected. He was an ardent, a passionate lover. The gratification of her curiosity was pleasant and soothing; but as his story came to the night when he and Dorothy had said good-bye, she felt inwardly disturbed, despite herself.

“Well?” she said. “Well—that was not all, heh?”

Her eyes were damming in a scrutiny of his face, and she found her answer in his eyes that straightly met her own.

“You behaved well? You behaved badly—eh— which? And now you are ashamed of yourself— you are an Englishman and you are ashamed of yourself—is that how it is?”

“I’m not ashamed of that,” said he.

She detected the faintest tone in his voice as he replied. Had she not guessed it? He was hotheaded, impetuous. It would be amusing to see him in love.

“You are ashamed of the other one. though,” said she.

Then he knew she knew, for indeed he had meant her to know, had wanted to tell someone of his folly, and why not her? It is so easy to tell these things to a woman; to begin with, they are so interesting to her, and a woman always has a big heart for the follies of every man but him she loves herself. Nodding and smiling again, she listened while he told her of Constance. If there had been a hundred others, she would have listened just as sympathetically. Indeed, curiosity was truly the passion in her.

“And you are ashamed of that?” said she when he had done.

Dicky bent his head.

“It isn’t possible for a man to love two women, is it?” he said at last. “Because I know I love Dorothy—absolutely—terribly. I couldn’t convince myself that I loved Constance, too—could I? I hardly thought what I was doing till it was all over. She seemed fine to me then—big and generous— she seems that still. It’s only I who find myself different now it’s over. I—I seem just a cad!”

For a moment or two Madame Marco was silent in her admiration of his self-contempt; then, throwing back her head and laughing, she clapped her little hands.

“Oh—you nice Englishmen!” she cried. “If I were a little Dorothy or a little Constance what a splendid lover you’d make. Why does a woman ever grow old? Why couldn’t I have kept young a little longer?”

“But you’re not old,” said Dicky.

She had waited for that, but he did not say it quite the right way. In the faint inflection of his voice she knew that he found her just as old as she was. Thirty-eight? Perhaps. The worst of it is the ease with which one remembers when one is always trying to forget. Imperceptibly her spirits fell. Those little disturbances quietened within her; her pulse dropped to a slower measure.

“My dear boy,” said she, “don’t you see you’re only beginning. Young men’s fancies, is it, turn to thoughts of love—is that it? But they’re only fancies. Your Dorothy and your Constance, they’re only helping you on your way, exciting you to work. Between them they’re making you do all this nasty business just so that you can get to your old right classes. And Gladys and Emily and all the rest of them, they’ll all come in somewhere or other and help their little as well. Can you work on two pictures at once—heh?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he replied.

“Well, then—there you are! You’re in love with them both—with this little Dorothy because she’s gentle and sweet and complacent—that is a good word—heh? And you’re in love with this little Constance because she’s big and fine and generous. And little Dorothy makes you do this beastly business because you want to get on, and Constance makes you go and paint fine things, and you don’t care a damn—that naughty word!— whether you get paid for them or not, because,f you have no money she’s so glad to give it to you Isn’t it so?”

“No!” cried Dicky vehemently, the more vehemently because he feared it to be true. “Dorothy’s the one I care about. I only admire Constance— I’ve only felt just passion for her, and I’m ashamed of that now.”

Madame Marco shrugged her shoulders.

“Have it your own way,” said she patiently. “You all have it that way over here in England. You treat love like an appetite; you give it a meal, and. like your food, you don’t ever want to talk about it. Come over here and give me your brotherly kiss. I’m going out for a little walk down the Quay into the High Street.”

He kissed her obediently, when she went laughing out of the room.

“He’s very young,” she said to herself all the way down the attic stairs; “he’s too young,” and it was comforting to think that. She never would allow herself to think uncomfortable thoughts, they creased the smoothness of her forehead, they added little lines to her eyes.

“He’s too young,” said she, as she put on her hat, “but how impetuous!” At the hall door she repeated it once more. Then she stepped out on to the Quay.

CHAPTER XVII

A HISTORY of such a nature as this must of necessity take time by the forelock, counting only those incidents which are essential to the whole.

Of all the eight months during which Dicky worked at the house on Ballast Quay, only the main issue can be regarded, or there would be matter in hand for more volumes than one would have patience to pursue.

The very first evening when he visited Mr. Nibbs —an evening when he was not attending the art schools—he formulated the idea of beginning his work upon wood blocks. The little print-seller’s love for his prints, the tenderness with which he handled them, the gentle way in which he pointed out their beauties to Dicky’s ready eyes, all combined by that force of example which is the foster-mother of ambition to make him wish to work in such material himself.

In that little room with the bright light of an oil lamp thrown obliquely on the table and concentrated on to the print through a round glass bowl of water, Dicky found the little man at work. The first sight of necessity take time by the forelock, recounting only those incidents which are es- of him sitting there as he himself stood in the doorway, the old horn spectacles on his nose, the head bent low over the faded print, brought home to Dicky the love in Mr. Nibbs for his work. At that moment he envied him, and it was that envy perhaps which first led him to adopt the medium of engraving for himself.

When once they had shaken hands and Mr. Nibbs had made all enquiries as to his progress with Monsieur Marco and his study at the schools, the little man settled himself back again in his chair, readjusted his spectacles, brought the ray of light from the glass bowl on to that part of the print on which he was at work and began again. For some time there were only the sudden exhalations of his breath to break the silence, while Dicky watched with increasing interest.

“Why doesn’t anyone do wood-engraving now?” he asked suddenly.

Mr. Nibbs looked up.

“Some do,” said he, “but there ain’t no sale for it. It’s too bold—people don’t like it. They can’t appreciate it now. They like etchings if they like anything. A good etcher’ll fetch high prices in Bond Street with the big dealers. Just a few does wood engraving, but really it’s a lost art. Look at Borrow’s tail-pieces—they couldn’t do simple things like that now. People don’t think it worth while to be simple, it seems to me. They like colour and tons of it or they fancies they ‘aven’t got their money’s worth. Look at the way them prints of Albert Moore sell, and I don’t think much of him myself.”

From Mr. Nibbs, Dicky learnt all that Mr. Nibbs knew of the art of wood-engraving. It was not much. Truly he had an eye for quality. He liked a bold line; he liked a fine line, too. But beyond the mere simple rudiments of the art, it was left to Dicky’s imagination to seize upon the possibilities it offered to him. So he listened to all the little man had to say about Diirer and Borrow and Bartolozzi, the few names he knew well, and he watched all that the little man did in restoring the prints that were brought into his shop. Every evening that he was free from the Polytechnic he made his way round to the room where Mr. Nibbs worked far into the night, and there he sat with him till It was time for him to go back again to his attic bed.

One evening when he came in. Mr. Nibbs was deeply engaged upon some tricky manipulation with his pen. His breath was held, his head was bent low, and all his features were screwed up in the concentration of what he was doing. He did not look up, and Dicky came quietly to his side, taking his seat in the chair already placed out for him. When it w as finished, the little print-seller let go his breath with a burst, pushed his spectacles on to his forehead, and sat back rubbing his eyes with a red pocket handkerchief from the strain of his exertions.

“Poof!” said he, then looked up at Dicky if possible with a more genial expression than ever.

“Well, you’re gettin’ on, my boy,” said he; “you’re gettin’ on.”

“How do you know?” said Dicky.

“How do I know—well—I’ll tell you. A gentleman come along this afternoon, he was cornin’ from the other side of the river across to the Strand. Now, the ones that go the other way from the Strand they’re goin’ to catch a train at Waterloo station, and they’ve got no taste at all. They don’t know a good picture from a bad’un—but he was cornin’ the other way. I saw him stop outside the window, and presently in ’e comes. ‘I want to ’ave a look at that picture,’ ’e says, ‘the water-colour you’ve got in the front.’ ”

“Mine?” exclaimed Dicky, and from a quiet pulse his heart suddenly started pounding in his breast.

“Yes—yours. I got it out for ’im and ’e stood there lookin’ at it for five minutes.”

“Did he say anything?” asked Dicky.

“Oh, yes—after a few minutes ’e looked up, and, ‘What’s ’e call it “Fragrance” for?’ says he. I told ’im I’d said that wasn’t the name for it. ‘Wot would you ’ave called it?’ ’c says. ‘ “Going to the Market,” ’ I said—same as what I told you. ‘Well, you’d ’ave been all wrong,’ ’e says. ‘It’ud only ’ave been worth thirty bob then,’ ’e says. ‘That title,’ ’e says, ‘is worth the extry quid.’ And without a word ’e paid it—I did it up for ’im in paper and out ’e went.” i‘Didn’t he say anything more?” said Dicky. “Was that all?”

Just then Emily came into the room, and Mr. Nibbs turned to her with a shrug of the shoulders.

“ ’E ain’t satisfied, my dear,” said he. “I told ’im the gentleman paid the full price for it, but ’e ain’t satisfied.”

“I only wanted to know if he’d said he liked it,” said Dicky. “That was all.”

“That’s all!” Mr. Nibbs blew his nose, an action he resorted to frequendy when words eluded him. “Didn’t ’e buy it? Isn’t that enough for you? Do yer think ’e paid two pound ten and didn’t like it? Why, a picture ’as to be a masterpiece in the Waterloo Bridge Road before anyone’ll pay two pound ten for it. You don’t seem to see what Vs done for you.”

“What’s he done?”

“Why, I want another picture—don’t I? And I’ll pay the same price for it, too.”

“Two pounds again!” exclaimed Dicky.

“Yes, two pounds.”

Dicky could hardly believe that it was true. The great iron gates that lead to success were slowly opening for him. lie could almost feel their weight giving way before the pressure of his desire. He wanted to dance round Mr. Nibbs’ little room. He would have liked to kiss Emily, who stood there smiling with a look of pride, too. in her eyes.

“It is ripping, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “By Jove, it is ripping!”

It was not only the sale of a picture or the purchase of another that he meant by this—it was all of life, the joyous knowledge that he was making his own destiny, conquering circumstance and rising above the surroundings that so long had held him down.

“Which one do you want?” he asked. “There’s ‘The Mysterious Journey’—no—that’s not good enough. I can do better than that. I never got it quite there—the figures worried me too much. They won’t worry me soon, though, not after I’ve been through the life class. I’ll paint one for you, Mr. Nibbs, that’s what I’ll do. It’s packed with subjects here. If old Marco’ll let me off to-morrow, I’ll go and do one for you.”

Dicky took his day off without asking, for the next morning Monsieur Marco went up to town.

He patted Dicky on the back as he left him.

“You are getting on first class,” said he cheerfully. “Next week perhaps if I see still more improvement I will let you paint a shipwreck—all by yourself.”

Dicky stood on the steps with Madame Marco and watched him depart.

“Isn’t he just sweet?” said she, with a twinkle in her eyes. She had seen the look on Dicky’s face as he listened to Monsieur Marco’s promise, and her lips were twitching to laugh.

“You’ll love to pa’nt a shipwreck, won’t you? Eh? And you’ll put all your soul into it—won’t you? Eh?”

Dicky’s face had become so serious that at last she burst out laughing.

“You may kiss me,” said she, a thing she had often said since that day when they had talked together in The Studio, and Dicky always obeyed because she was Madame Marco and the five shillings a week had to be earned. It was certainly preferable to fetching Monsieur Marco’s beer at the Crown and Thistle. He kissed her then, and, when he had done it once, she put up her cheek and said, “The other side,” all of which they saw from the front bedroom window of number four. Indeed, Mrs. Weyburn felt the blood hot in her cheeks with shame, for Dicky was far too nice a boy, she thought, to be caught by that minx of a woman, that Madame Marco.

It was this day that Dicky did his first study of the dredger lying in the Thames with Limehouse Reach spread out beyond t. He called it “The Scavenger” then and, as he was bringing it into the house, was discovered by Madame Marco.

She said she had the right to see it because he had been wasting her husband’s most valuable time, and, never observing that constant light of laughter in her eyes, he showed it her in doubtful apprehension.

She took it to the window, standing it where the light was best, and then, when she had looked at it for a while, turned suddenly, almost with anger in her face.

“You little fool!” she said.

Dicky prepared himself for the announcement that she was going to tell Monsieur Marco how he had been wasting his day.

“Why do you come and do those daubs upstairs?” she went on. “You can paint.”

“I know I can,” said Dicky, and felt a lump rise in his throat because he knew she was speaking from conviction.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Making five shillings a week to go to the right schools,” said he.

“Well, never let Monsieur Marco know you can paint a thing like that,” she replied. “He’d turn you out of the house if he did.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE influence of those evenings with Mr.

Nibbs and his prints was not long in bearing fruit in Dicky’s mind. At the Polytechnic, he bought a small wood-engraver’s outfit, and, long after Monsieur Marco and the household had gone to bed, would sit in his attic, cutting out the first wood-block he had ever done. The subject was a simple one; undoubtedly the influence of Borrow and his t: d-pieces was there. It is the hands of the great men that lead us all toward great endeavour.

A barge full-sail was the picture that he chose, a barge bending the turn by Woolwich corner. He had made a sketch of it in pencil only a few days before. Now, with infinite labour and love he cut it out in wood, and, never mentioning a word of it to Mr. Nibbs, took it up to the school when it was done. From the printing press there he took a pull of it on old India paper in black ink, and, when he saw his picture visualised, felt all the delight and excitement of a child. The hours seemed endless before he could take it the next evening to Mr. Nibbs.

Anyone more observant than the little print-seller would have known from his manner that Dicky had some matter on his mind. Even Emily, who had opened the door to him, was aware that something unusual had happened. She followed him into the room and stood there waiting, just as she waited in the back of the shop for the errands she had to run, waiting to hear what it was.

When a suitable opportunity arose, Dicky at last drew the print out of his pocket.

“How do you like this?” said he, and threw it down casually on the table, as though he had never been less excited over anything in his life.

Mr. Nibbs took it up and looked it all over. His expression was more that of a dealer than a lover of the work itself. But then Dicky expected that. Never, in the wildest moments of his enthusiasm, did he ever credit Mr. Nibbs with a true power of appreciation. He was just a little print-seller who loved his prints, good or bad, as he would have loved his children.

“How do you like it?” repeated Dicky.

The little man looked up.

“Well—it ain’t Borrow,” said he, “ ’cos this was never one of Borrow’s subjects, but it’s on old paper, or a damned good imitation of it. It’s bold, I’ll say that for it; it’s bold. Where’d you pick it up?”

‘ It’s mine,” said Dicky.

“Yes, I know; I supposed that. But where’d you pick it up; where’d you buy it?”

“I did it myself,” said Dicky, as quietly as he could, but he felt ready to burst out into excited laughter. He had deceived Mr. Nibbs; Mr. Nibbs, who had been handling prints half his life. It did not prove to him ’ust then how little Mr. Nibbs must know about it. His mood at that moment was to take all the credit to himself. He had only thought it was not a wood-cut by Borrow, because the subject was not one that Borrow would have chosen.

“Knew there was something up,” remarked Emily from the background, and, having waited long enough to make this observation, she went out of the room to household duties far more important than these.

And, when he had really grasped the truth of it, Mr. Nibbs was thoroughly delighted. He rubbed his glasses clean and chuckled over the matter like a jackdaw with a stolen trinket.

“Well, I’d never have thought it, I’d never have guessed it,” he kept on saying. “You’ll take to wood-cuts now, my boy. And one of these days, in a hundred years or so, there’ll be some fusty old chap like myself poring over a rusty old print and wondering if it’s a Furlong, a genuine Furlong.”

All this no doubt was nonsense, with such slender promise as the engraving he held in his hand.

It was only his talk, but it was just the talk that Dicky needed then to urge him on. They sat together till late into the night, discussing what he should do next; how Mr. Nibbs would frame his prints and put them in the fore-front of the window, pushing hi» name before the public until they came to buy everything he did.

That was a great evening, one that Dicky remembered for many a long day to come.

“But I’m not satisfied,” he said as he was going. They neither of them realised the colossal impudence of that. They neither of them realised how it was the keynote of all Dicky’s genius, that he never reached satisfaction all his life through.

“Why not?” said Mr. Nibbs, who was cheerful enough to be satisfied with anything.

“Well, it seems to me I ought to have got the sails of that barge in the colour that they were. Why should you limit yourself to black ink?”

“They all did,” said Mr. Nibbs. “You can’t get away from that.”

“Yes, I can,” said Dicky. “I can make two blocks; print the first in black ink and the second widi just the sails in brown. Why shouldn’t I do that?”

“It’s never been done before,” said Mr. Nibbs; “never to my knowledge. Why don’t you colour your prints like Bartolozzi did?”

“No, I am going to print them,” said Dicky.

“You wait and see. I’ll make you sit up when you see them.”

But Mr. Nibbs was already sitting up. These ideas were revolutionary. He could not cast his mind forward in an imagination of what they were going to lead to. And, when Dicky had gone, he still sat on in his chair rubbing his spectacles and saying aloud to himself, “But Durer never did it, and he can’t beat Durer.”

“Which was quite true; but, though you may not beat a master at his job, you may yet become master of your own.

CHAPTER XIX

NOW there comes another stage, another period is reached in Dicky’s development. It would seem with him, at least, that Madame Marco with all her French ideas about love was right. Certain it was that it played a mighty part in all the work he ever did.

The two pounds he had received from Mr. Nibbs for his picture was the first cause of it all, and perhaps it is more British and proper to regard it rather in this light than the other. Whichever way you take .t, he spent that money in a journey to Eckington to see his Dorothy.

That talk with Madame Marco in The Studio had set his mind a-longing back to the days when they had walked the countryside together. Pictures of the green meadows beside the Avon filled his eyes at night, and, though the leaves were fast falling now, he felt a hunger to see the place again, even to see the mill where he had spent so many days of tribulation with the stern conception of duty which his father had held like a sword above his head.

The remembrance of that had softened much with time. He even looked forward to the prospect of seeing his father again. There was no doubt in his mind but that he would be interested in his work now, now that he was really beginning to see success. And at the thought of Dorothy, of Dorothy’s arms and Dorothy’s kisses, his heart came up into his throat and every sense in him rose up to greet the first light of that day when they should meet again.

With Monsieur Marco’s permission he had written to her to say that he would come, begging her to be up early that morning and meet him by the first train that reached Pershore from London. To his sister Anne he sent no word. Part of the joy of that journey was the thought of how he would surprise them at home; how they would hear the click of the wicket gate that stood in the hedge of laurels; how Anne would look out from the window and see him coming up the path between the Michaelmas daisies which then would he in bloom. All the way down in the train, which left London in grey darkness, speeding through the country into the daybreak, he sat in the corner of his empty carriage, thinking of the delight of all the hours of that dry which lay before him.

The sun was well up, the country ablaze with light when the train slowed into Pershore station. Memories began fast to beset him here, but had no hold upon his mind in his eagerness to see his Dorothy.

For some moments before his arrival, he had stood up and was leaning out of the carriage window, and, when first the station came in sight, all the pent-up excitement in his mind fell to a slow, sick beating of his heart. It was empty, empty to him. A solitary porter stood upon the platform waiting the train’s arrival from which, at that hour of the morning, he expected no passengers for Ptrshore.

Dicky stepped down from his carriage, closing the door. The porter stared at him and the train moved on.

“Have you seen anything of a lady waiting here for this train?” Dicky asked.

The porter shook his head.

“No lady hereabouts this morning,” said he.

Dicky turned away. Perhaps she had been late in getting up. It was scarcely seven o’clock then. She might be on the road and he would meet her. It was a long walk from Kckington. He turned away out of the station, gathering hope to himself and setting out down the road with a quick step. Round the bend of every corner he expected to find her in sight, and, the nearer he drew towards Eckington, the faster fell his hopes away.

The country had no pleasure for him then. The pale gold to which the willows had turned, the warm purple of the oak-trees, the burning orange of the beech, they filled his eyes, but never reached his heart. Beauty must be in the mind of a man to find it, and, glorious an October morning though that was, Dicky could find no beauty anywhere. He thought bitterly how Madame Marco was quite right. The whole world was beautiful, he knew that, but, in the bitter disappointment of his heart, he could not find it so.

There was also an ugly apprehension in his mind that something was wrong. Dorothy was sick, or she was away; and, the more he thought upon what it might be, the more the remembrance of Constance smote upon his conscience. By the time he had reached Eckington Bridge, and still there was no Dorothy, he had come to regard her absence and this nameless apprehension in his mind as a just punishment for his unfaithfulness. Yet there was the world, and he was in it and of it, and a thousand times he had expiated his folly with remorse, but the punishment was yet to come.

As he thought over the last letters she had written him, it began to force itself upon his mind how there had been a faint coldness in them, a greater distance which he had not fully realised till now.

With a sickness of foreboding, he walked up to the door of Mr. Leggatt’s house, knocked and waited with the rush of a thousand sensations swelling in his mind. The door at last opened, and Wilfrid Leggatt stood there with mouth wide open and eyes gazing in surprise.

“Thought you were in London,” said he.

“I’ve just come down for the day,” replied Dicky. “Didn’t Dorothy tell you? I wrote.”

Wilfrid shook his head.

“We’re at breakfast. Come on in.”

He just had time to think that she could not have received his letter and then knew that the door of the morning room had been swung open. Dorothy was there. She was sitting the other side of the table. Her eyes were the first his eyes met, and there was fear, not joy, n them. Something had happened. He knew it then. The smiting of his conscience told him that she knew of Constance, and he felt like one condemned, not questioning how she knew.

“Here’s Dicky,” said Wilfrid. He was all awkwardness, like one introducing a new boy to the school. And Dicky felt much as an interloper, not knowing which way to turn. In a heavy silence he shook hands with everyone, last of all with Dorothy. Her hand was damp and cold; the fingers for that instant lay loosely with aloofness in his own.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Leggatt. “Sit down, my boy; have you had your breakfast?”

“No,” said Dicky, “not yet.”

“Well, sit down then and have a bit of something. There are some eggs. Give him an egg, Wilfrid; pick a brown one. Well, well, fancy now. You’ve come back, I suppose. Has it bee too much for you? It’s a hard life, a great struggle. But you took it on your own shoulders, didn’t you? If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twenty times since you went away. ‘That boy,’ I’ve said, ‘that boy had to have his fling, but he’ll come back.’ And, when I’ve said that to your father he’s just nodded his head and turned off to something else.”

For a moment in silence, Dicky drank his cup of tea and ate his bread and butter that felt like leather on the dryness of his tongue. Then he looked up.

“I’ve not come back,” said he. “Only just for the day. I’m going to London again early tomorrow morning. Monsieur Marco gave me a day off, that’s all. I’m working. I wrote and told Dorothy so.”

He looked across the table at her. She tried to look back at him.

“Is that so, Dorothy?” demanded her father.

She nodded her head.

He cut the top off an egg.

“Then why didn’t you tell us so?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wonder if you know anything,” said he, then having, as he imagined, successfully covered his retreat, he turned to Dicky. “Well, this is better than I expected,” he remarked, “and who’s this Monsieur Marco? Marco what?”

“Just Marco,” said Dicky; “he’s a painter.” He tried to call him an artist, but failed.

“What sort of a painter, a house painter?”

“No, he paints pictures. I work in his studio and go to the life classes at the night schools in the evening.”

Mr. Leggatt nodded his head. Once he had met an artist, and often he had heard of the lives they led.

“And what do you mean by—life classes?” “Drawing from the model.”

“Plaster casts and things like that, I suppose.” “No—people—models—the life class.”

“What? Not-?”

He could not bring himself to say what he meant, but they all understood. In a moment of exasperation Dicky looked up at the narrow face, the close set eyes that were questioning him.

“Yes,” said he, “the nude.”

Mr. Leggett looked at his watch.

“I must be going in for prayers,” said he. He folded his napkin with great precision. There was such a lot he could have said, but it wanted only five minutes before the school opened, and he felt that if he said in brief it would lose half its importance. But at the door he turned. He could not resist it.

“It seems to me a man must be very sure of being a great artist before he begins playing about in life classes,” he remarked. “I call it shocking myself. I never could see any beauty in nakedness. Well— I shall see you again I suppose before you go back, but you think it over a bit. That sort of life can lead to no good. Come along to prayers, Wilfrid. Finish your egg, my boy, and have another if you want it.”

He said this in great kindness of tone and spirit. He always found that kindness did a great deal of good with boys, but he believed that they should be thoroughly humiliated first.

Nothing he had said, however, had humiliated Dicky. Indeed that kindness of tone had only stung him to greater resentment. Directly the door had closed, he laid down his spoon.

“Hadn’t I better go?” said he.

Mrs. Leggatt laid a hand on his arm.

“Stay and talk to Dorothy,” said she. “I’m going upstairs, and I think she’s got something to tell you.”

Again his heart fell, for there was an ominous sound in those words. He knew it could not be Constance now. It was something else and something worse than that. He waited until Mrs. Leggatt had gone, then, quickly, eagerly, hopefully, he stretched out his hand across the table. She took it limply and reluctantly in her own.

“What is it?” he asked thickly. “What is it you’ve got to tell me?”

She gazed at him beseechingly, and with that look, appealing to him, he felt all the tenderness for her return, felt all the weight of his own folly.

“I’ve gut something I must tell you first,” said he. “It’s hanging on my mind, and I shall be miserable until I’ve got it off. Yours can’t be like mine, Dorrie; let me tell you first.”

She looked at him curiously; asked him what it was, struggling in her mind against that power of his influence which dimly was returning now across the months of absence.

But he could not say it straightway. lie must tell her first how much through all this time he had kept the spirit of his love for her. Now he was holding her hand, still cold and listless in the hot pressure of his own.

He thought then, as he came in gradual nearness to his confession, how never had a man been placed as he, to tell of his folly to the woman whom he swore he loved. How could she ever believe him when she knew? Where was the truth or the logic of it if she asked to swear to love and in a breath to own to heartless folly? Experience had not taught him then how many a man is brought to such a predicament. He thought himself alone that he should hurt the thing he loved, and did not know the world was full of such anomaly.

At last it came when, with head bent down and hidden in his hands and hers, he told her of the thing that shamed him. There was little or no excuse to make. The overwhelming suddenness of it, and all the vileness of men, she must know that of herself.

No blame he laid on Constance. Whether Dorothy could understand it or not, Constance he praised. It was her idea of life. She had lived up to it. Only he had fallen; for at least there had been time for choice, but his blood was hot and he had chosen. She must judge him as she thought best, but, above all, he loved her.

For some moments silence. He kept his face still hidden, then at last looked up for what she had to say. Her whole expression had changed. There was no fear but satisfaction now’. It leapt to his mind to believe her understanding was so great that she had seen the pity of his folly, but would not see its shame.

“Dorrie!” he exclaimed.

She freed a hand and laid it on his head.

“Poor old Dicky,” she said gently. “I always thought when you went away you’d be like that. I’ve thought it all these months. I know you think you care. I’m sure you’ve suffered, in a way. You’ve got so vivid an imagination. You’ve thought it would hurt me when I knew. But I’ve expected it ever since you went to London. And I think it’s dear of you to tell me. I can’t really think why you did.”

“Why, because I love you,” said he.

She shook her head and smiled.

“No, no, you imagine that,” she replied. “I’ve known that, too. When you gave up the Mill, I knew we should never marry. Didn’t I tell you so, even then.”

“But, Dorrie, we shall marry!”

Again she shook her head. She tried to smile once more to carry off what she must tell, but it was weak and unconvincing.

“What do you mean?’’ he demanded. “Do you mean that’s what you’re going to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Won’t they let you? Do they think I’m no good?”

“No, it isn’t that, Dicky. Father doesn’t think much of your chances, as you can see, but it isn’t that.”

He sat and stared at her, stared with frightened eyes. His throat was dry, his mouth parched. He tried to moisten it with his tongue.

“Some one else?” he whispered.

Her head acknowledged it.

“You’re going to be married?”

“Yes. He asked me only the day before yesterday, the day before I got your letter. And I’d known, I’d guessed all that was happening to you. Father knows what an artist’s life in London is like. He knew an artist once. But he didn’t persuade me. I knew’ myself, and now—you come and tell me. We should never have been married, Dicky, you know that, not after you left the Mill.”

He stood up slowly to his feet, looked one way and then another. At last he walked to the door. A woman is quick to suspect when she is a fool. Dorothy stretched out r hand across the table. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” she asked. He turned at the door.

“Does he know, this—this man?” he said.

She shook her head.

“Good-bye,” said he.

CHAPTER XX

WHEN he had left the house and was out once more in the street, Dicky turned automatically towards Bredon Hill and his home. He was not walking slowly, yet there was an absence of conscious decision “in his movements. His mind was labouring under an acute strain, and, for the first quarter of a mile along the road, was incapable of any thought more definite than the contemplation of the mere fact of what he had just heard. Dorothy no longer cared for him. If any other idea presented itself to his consciousness in a concrete form, it was that the retribution had its aspect of justice.

These two thoughts revolved ceaselessly and bewilderingly before him as he walked. He tried to steady his brain, to catch hold of some trivial commonplace upon which to pivot the unsteady balance of his mind. In a vain effort, he endeavoured to recall the people in London and said their names, first one and then another, to himself. But it was impossible to visualise them. They refused to stay, were only names, vanishing as quickly from his thoughts as they had come. All that remained be fore him was Dorothy, Dorothy plighted to some other man, Dorothy no longer caring for him, and himself, destitute of love, alone in his remorse, adrift upon a sea of bitterness from which no land of promise was in sight.

At a turning of the road the figure of a man presented itself before him, and for the first time his mind steadied as he recognised the figure of old Angel, the shepherd, making his way towards his flocks on Bredor. Hill. Yet this served only to bring back memories in a mocking crowd, each clamouring for recognition. It was Mr. Angel who had met them that Sunday morning when first they had realised the human element of passion in their love, when the whole world was swimming before their eyes. He remembered so well how the old shepherd had talked on unceasingly, just when they themselves were past all utterance of words. It was because of what he had felt that morning, that he had spoken to his father of his eagerness to be married. Now! His breath was deep, long-drawn, out of the bitterness of his heart.

At the sound of Dicky’s footsteps, Mr. Angel had turned, ready to welcome any companion on the road. When he saw who it was, the boy whom he had carried on his back when death was creeping at their heels, that same little boy at the door of manhood now, he stood motionless in mute astonishment.

“Master Dicky!” cried he at last, when speech had come to him. “Well now, there now!” It was a remark in true keeping with the standard of Mr. Angel’s intelligence, bringing almost a smile to Dicky’s lips.

“Hav’ee come home for good, now?” he asked.

Dicky shook his head.

“Just for the day,” said he. “I’m staying at the Mill to-night and going back to London to-morrow.”

Mr. Angel nodded at least half a dozen times. If that were so, then the young gentleman was in a better grace with his father than he had been led to understand. But that was none of his business, wherefore his head kept nodding till the thought had sluggishly passed from his mind and he was safe from any fear of speaking of it.

“Are’ee goin’ that way now?” he asked.

“I am. You’re going up to the hills, I suppose?”

“About that,” replied the shepherd.

So- they walked together, and, till the first turning of the road, in silence.

“The last time I saw ’ee, Master Dicky-” the old man began presently.

“Yes, yes, I remember. You were coming from Little Cumberton. Have you seen my sister lately?”

“I have now, beginning this autumn she’s been times aga’n with that gentleman of hers up on the hillside there above Woolas Hall. But ’tis your mistake, Master Dicky; I was not coming from Little Cumberton that day. Look you, I’d been to Elmly Castle. ’Twas there I’d be cornin’ from no doubt when I met you and Miss Dorothy by the hedge.”

Until they reached the Mill, the old shepherd did his utmost to recall that morning, and by nothing he could say was Dicky able to distract his mind from the subject he seemed determined to dwell upon. It was with no little relief that he turned aside at last through the open gate as their ways parted and walked down the sloping meadow to the Mill house.

His steps were quicker, but self-conscious now. For the moment, Dorothy and the desolation of his mind retreated before the sensation of sudden apprehension. He was about to see his father for the first time since he had run away from home, and, with the mood that now was mastering him, it seemed there might be retribution here as well.

In those six months that he had been away he had forgotten nothing of his father’s character. Yet judgement was warped in him by his knowledge of himself. He was conscious even of eagerness to see them all again; was preparing himself for that moment when his father must see in his outstretched hand that there was gladness in him to be home once more. For, as he came down the sloping orchard beneath the apple trees and saw the grey roof of the Mill house spread with its bright-green patches of moss; when his eyes had taken in the familiar waters rushing by the weir, the friendly willow trees calling back all the hours of his childhood, he knew that the meaning of home was deeper-seated in the heart than ever his mind had been aware of.

With his pulse rising again to a quicker measure, he went round to the front door, that same door at which Christina, his mother, had taken him from the shepherd’s arms while death was waiting for him at the gate, then, when his hesitation had passed, he knocked. The sound of his rapping echoed along the passage of the broad hall within. He could picture his sister Anne, stopping from her duties to listen, for a moment standing still to wonder who it was. At that hour of the morning his father would be working in the Mill where the noise of the tireless wheel would drown all sounds beside.

He waited on the doorstep listening to it then. The years might never have gone by, everything in that moment might have been just the same as when he was a little boy, for the splashing of the water, the dull hum of the revolving machinery, all were pitched on the same unchangeable note.

A sensation that he had forfeited something of this when he had left the Mill deterred him from opening the door before him and walking into the house. It remained with them to whom in every sense of the word it was still home, it remained with them to give him the freedom of it once more, and, with the desolate isolation in which it seemed he was then, he desired nothing more earnestly.

Here was indeed the return of the Prodigal, yet when he thought of himself as such pride denied the perfect similarity. He had not found failure in the world. He was drawing near to success. Two pictures he had sold, moreover there was work for him to do to which he must return. In but one sense alone was his case analogous. He looked for welcome to cheer the bitterness of his heart, so that when at last the door did open, and his sister Anne was standing before him in silent amazement, he took her suddenly in h.s arms and crushed her to him.

When at last she gained her freedom and held him at arm’s length the better to regard him, she found there were tears in his eyes, that his lip was quivering, more manfully now, but with just that same expression which he used to wear when he was a little boy. This was not merely the delight of coming home. With some of that instinct common to women and exaggerated as it had been ‘n her mother, Anne knew that he was in trouble. In a moment her heart was up to help him. She closed the door behind them, anticipating his need to be alone, and, putting an arm on his shoulder, she brought him to the dining room.

There for a moment he stood looking about h:in, at the familiar furniture, the same wall paper, the chair his mother had always occupied—empty now as it had always been since her death. Then, as he gazed at the place he knew so well, something in the strength of his reserve snapped in twain. He sat down in the nearest chair, and, throwing his arms upon the table, leant forward, bursting into tears.

Anne was by his side in an instant. The pathos of his sudden and unexpected return wrung her heart, brought from her the deepest pity, the warmest emotions of which her nature was possessed. He had failed. The world had beaten him. The mother that is in every woman came out triumphant in her to such appeal as this. He had come home to admit his discomfiture; she could think of no other meaning in his tears than this.

“My poor old Dicky,” she whispered, “but I’m glad to have you back. It’s been horrid without you.”

So she murmured her sympathy in his ears, gentle words that were like an ointment on the burning pain of his wounded heart. And all the time his head was buried in his arms, until he realised that she did not understand. Then, with red eyes and tears he brushed away in shame, he looked up.

“I’ve not come back,” said he; “I’m not beaten. I’d go starving before I’d say that. But I’m not near starving. I’ve got work to do and I’m selling my pictures.”

“Then why?” she asked.

“I came back to see you all here, to see—Dorothy and—and I’ve—seen her.”

He got up from his chair; walked to the window, standing there with his hands deep in his pockets until he found her at his side again.

“Didn’t you know?” he asked. “Couldn’t you have done something?”

She shook her head to convey her ignorance of what he meant; but she knew by then. A month before she had seen Dorothy on the road with one of the two masters at her father’s school. Thinking nothing of it then, it came back to her with illumination now.

“What has she said?” she asked.

He told her, every word embittered by what he was suffering, yet none accusing Dorothy. She would have let him know; in time she would have let h’m know. She had never believed in him, that was the truth of it. The waiting had seemed too long, and then, what chance has a man when he is not there to protect his own? Anne had promised, his friend Mr. Hollom had promised too; but what could they have done? He. laid a hand wearily on her shoulder as they stood there together at the window. He did not blame her. It was his luck. He thanked God without conviction that he had work he could return to.

‘‘But I don’t care now!” he exclaimed. “There’s something gone out of it. I know she was no help, I know she didn’t understand, never understood one of the things I ever tried to do. but there’s something gone out of it. I don’t feel as if I could try now.”

And here, without thinking it, was he echoing all the beliefs of Madame Marco with her French ideas of life. It is preposterous in this country to conceive how such ideas as these might be true; yet there was Dicky Furlong an example of them, finding the incentive driven out of life by the mere breaking of a woman’s word.

“Don’t say that, Dicky!” Anne begged of him.

“Why shouldn’t I say it? What should make me care? What’s there left to work for?”

It was inspiration or it was Divine Providence with Anne, for hers was not the nature to grasp the deeper verities of life; but now she took his arm and, because she found it was the thing to say, declared that there was the work itself to work for. Divine Providence it must have been, for even now, she never contemplated a future for Dicky, or realised that there could be a future for an artist at all. Yet this was the word his courage needed then. In the depths of his pockets his hands clenched tighter, his jaws set firmer as he looked into her face.

“What made you say that?” he asked.

She shook her head. She did not know. “Because you’re right. There’s the, work itself. It may be all for nothing, too; but that’s not sure till it’s proved. There’re those coloured wood-cuts, there’s something in them. Why, I’ve only just begun, haven’t I?”

Then the despair of it flung back upon him again. How much easier it would have been with Dorothy caring for him still! How eagerly he would have returned on the morrow with fresh energy to paint the monotony of Monsieur Marco’s skies and seas! Now, indeed, there was still the work itself, but the drudgery of those hours in Monsieur Marco’s atelier faced him with an overwhelming depression.

“I’m going to stay the night, Anne,” he said at length. “Can I have my old room?”

“You can have anything you like,” said she.

He looked at her suddenly.

“What do you think the pater’ll say?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does he say about my going?”

“He never speaks about it.”

“Never?”

“Not a word.”

It was in the silence that fell upon them then that Dicky heard the slam of a door, the door leading from the house into the Mill. The sounds of footsteps that followed were another note that had not altered with the years. So many times in apprehension or in anger he had waited for them before. Now it was with confused sensations, for one instant in pleased expectancy, the next in nervous dread. Nearer they came until they stopped before the door. The handle turned with its old, accustomed squeak. Dicky remembered that squeak so well as to expect it, and then the door was open, his father was standing on the threshold, and Dicky had lost his presence of mind. The picture he had framed for himself of their meeting was now confronted by the moment itself, when nothing was happening as he had conceived it.

For a while they all stood there in silence, then Mr. Furlong entered the room and closed the door.

CHAPTER XXI

IT was quite true, as Anne had said: all those six months had gone by and over Dicky’s absence Mr. Furlong had maintained unyielding silence. He had never mentioned Dicky’s name. That he had thought of him often both with affection and with resentment may readily be supposed. That he had been hurt, and to the quick of his emotions, may easily be imagined, too. Yet in all this time of silence, when he had brooded often enough upon Dicky’s sudden departure, it had never occurred to him that he had been partly responsible for it himself.

On his knees often at night, where no sense of humour t\er illuminated his thoughts, he had asked to understand this burden of disappointment that had been placed upon him. Again and again he had prayed that in good time Dicky might realise the folly of his ambitions and return repentant to the Mill.

Repentance he must have, repentance meekly offered and in all humility. With that he would have taken Dicky back in a true joy of heart to Ms arms, killed for him the fatted calf and made festivity for the return of his own authority in fervent and earnest belief that it was for the return of his son.

Seeing him there before him then, Mr. Furlong’s first thought was that his prayers had at last been answered. Dicky had learnt the folly of his ambition and in secret his heart went out to him in gladness. But to Dicky and to Anne, who, in that moment of silence, watched him as he stood beside the door, the only light in his eyes was that of stern amazement.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

And those words wert interpreted in his look, yet were no interpretation of his mind. They could not see, these two, how all his gladness he was holding back until that moment when Dicky, admitting his defeat, should place himself upon the generosity of his mercy. Then he was prepared to be generous indeed, and all his heart was yearning for that moment when he could give it rein.

Receiving no answer to his first question, he put it more plainly still.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

It even seemed to him that in all fairness he was giving Dicky his chance. If he had failed, there was his opportunity to say so then.

“I’ve come back to see you,” said Dicky simply. This was his father’s house. He knew it was his no longer. Even in Mr. Furlong’s eyes he realised he had forfeited that, and there was humility in his voice. But the answer was not that which had been expected of him.

“Come back to see me, have you?” said his father slowly. “What do you want to see me about?”

Could he be giving him a more honest chance than this? He had failed. It was his duty to his elders to be the first to admit it, admit it freely without question to his aid. Yet here he was giving him all assistance.

“About nothing,” replied Dicky; “just to see you and Anne and—the place again, that’s all.”

What did this mean? Had he failed and was he too ashamed to admit it? Then that shame must be overcome and by the true spirit of repentance. So much, at least, was due to him as a father. He crossed to the fireplace and stood there with his hands behind his back.

“If only he knew,” he thought, “if only he realised the love and forgiveness I’m longing to hold out to him.”

“So you’ve just come to see us?” said he, and he made no effort to keep the tone of irony from his voice. “And how long are we going to have the pleasure of your company?”

The spirit in Dicky was too numbed as yet. Retribution was pursuing him at every turn. At every turn he felt the bitter justice of it.

“I was just going to stay till to-morrow,” said he meekly, “if I might have the bed made up in my old room.”

“Oh, you were going back to-morrow. Are Anne and Mr. Hollom still keeping you in cash, then?”

“Father!” exclaimed Anne, but said no more. His eyes, bright with a terrifying anger, had driven her to silence.

“I’m not taking money from anyone,” said Dicky quietly.

“Really. Do you want me to suppose that you’re making your own living?”

“Yes.”

“How? What work has anybody found you capable of doing?”

“Painting.”

He said it with intense quietness. Perhaps the absolute triumph of it was all the greater for that; greater because he had not sought it. Yet even then, Mr. Furlong could not believe that his instinct had been so completely at fault.

“Painting pictures?” said he.

“Yes.”

Then he had not failed! He had come back n triumph, and to the unhappy man it seemed that he had come back to flaunt it in his face, to laugh at his father’s discomfiture. All the anger then that had been in his eyes came rushing, uncontrolled, to his lips.

“And you expect a welcome, do you?” said he. with a rising voice. “You run away from home, you fling all my authority, all the love I have given you, all the duty you owe me, you fling them in my face, and when my back is turned, when the house is asleep and no one is looking, you sneak away to a life in London which, after what you said that Sunday to me about marrying Dorothy Leggatt, I have no desire to enquire into. And now you come back expecting a welcome, my lord, expecting his bed to be made, his servants to wait upon him just as he pleases.” lie paused in his anger. The picture he was painting had grown so vivid in his mind that words choked him in their utterance. He pointed with shaking finger to the door.

“You can go out of this house the way you came!” he cried, and, knowing that his temper was beyond his control, it angered him the more. “You gave up all right to he treated as a son of mine,” he shouted, “the night you left this house! Never expect a welcome from me again, for this is the sort of welcome you’ll get.”

In trembling silence Dicky stood watching his father’s face, and, through all the bitterness, the hopeless despair that overwhelmed him, came by chance at understanding. If he had failed, there would have been no such recriminations as these. But he had not failed; he had set his feet upon the long, long road, but it was the road to success.

In that moment both of them had forgotten Anne. At the sound of her voice they both turned in surprise, finding her eyes were blazing, too, her fingers nervously pulling at the tassels of the tablecloth.

“If Dicky doesn’t stay here to-night,” said she, “I’m going too, father! I couldn’t stop ii the house when I thought he was being treated like this. He’s unhappy and he comes here to us for sympathy, and this is how you give it him.”

Dicky was unhappy, was he? The wretched man looked from one to the other. Had they no conception of the misery that was aching in his heart? In one moment to lose both his children; n one moment to realise that they cared less for him than for each other!

But if that were so, it was so. A sense of fatalism came upon him then.

“Then go,” said he, “both of you! And may you never know the sorrow of children who give you nothing of their love.”

In silence Dicky came to Anne’s side and gently took her hand.

“She doesn’t mean what she said, father,” he declared. “She’s upset, that’s all. I wouldn’t have her come.”

“She can speak for herself,” said Mr. Furlong.

“Yes, she can speak for herself,” replied Dicky, “and that’s what she will say, isn’t it, Anne?”

He squeezed her hand tightly in his own, and, with the spirit as suddenly quitted in her, she bent her head “But you’re not going to-night, Dicky!” she begged.

“Yes, I am going,” he replied. “It’s only a matter of a few hours. I should have had to go early to-morrow morning. Don’t you come out now, try and think I haven’t been at all. I suppose it was silly of me to come.”

He took her head in his hands and kissed her. The tears from her eyes rolling down her cheeks had wet his lips. He tasted the salt of them. Then, without looking at his father again, he took his hat and left the room.

Anne’s head was bent with weeping. She did not noi ice that sudden movement of her father’s towards the door; she did not notice the agony in his face as pride checked it for him. She scarcely noticed when at last he went away.

But the moment he had closed the door his footsteps quickened. He hurried into the Mill. From a window there in one of the lofts he could see along the road to Eckington, and, climbing quickly up the ladder, he looked out.

The figure of Dicky had just turned in sight, and his eyes bent eagerly upon it.

“Come back,” he muttered to himself, and, as he heard his own words, shut his lips tight upon them.

Yet there he stayed until Dicky was out of sight, the tears dropping from his eyes, too, falling in thick splashes on the accumulated dust of flour at his feet.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

NOT long after his return to London calamity fell upon Dicky in the departure of Mr. Nibbs from Greenwich. The landlord’s lease of his cottage had expired. There was no renewing it; the site was wanted for business premises. The whole row of old cottages was razed to the ground almost before Mr. Nibbs had settled elsewhere.

Now, with that hankering for green fields—notwithstanding that, because of his late return from London, he seldom saw them—he moved further out into the country, depositing himself at Elstree. And here, except for his hours in the shop, he was further from Dicky than ever. They met only on such rare occasions as when Dicky could spare a moment from his classes, but all those evenings when he would sit alone with the little print-seller and his prints, those were gone forever. In one sweep of the arm of circumstance he had lost the influence of two people in his life, and from the moment of Mr. Nibbs’ departure his days were filled with disappointment.

Madame Marco and her wiles, with her pretty cynicism of life that threatened to rob him of all his illusions; Monsieur Marco with his bewildering conceit, they both jarred upon his spirits. Mr. Nibbs had gone, and he had no respite from them now. In the evening after supper he would go up to his attic bedroom, sitting there alone with his blocks of wood, where, by the light of a solitary candle, he worked desultorily at his wood-cuts without pleasure or inspiration.

For a week or so in a fine depression, he learnt for the first time that gloom and disappointment which can overtake an artist at his work. For many days the creative ability in him seemed dead. Nothing he put his hand to took upon itself the charm of life. At the night classes the charcoal burnt no longer in his fingers; for long minutes together he would stand, holding it listlessly in his hand.

He believed now that his work was finished, that his power and his energy were spent. Thoughts of suicide came unbidden to him at night. At all times of the day it seemed to him that he was criminally wasting the hours that life held out to him.

Now, in this. mood, he feared even to visit Mr, Nibbs in his shop. The little man believed in him. He would believe no longer if he were to hear the opinions that Dicky entertained about himself. So he dragged out the days, giving food in his loneliness to this gnawing spirit of despair.

And so it might have continued had not Monsieur Marco unwittingly put an end to it and brought about that change in his life which was the one thing at that moment that he needed.

Of Dicky’s painting that Madame Marco had seen she had told her husband nothing. He had taken the word of Mr. Nibbs that the boy could paint, but of the kind of work he did he was complacently ignorant. He had seen the work of Thomas Parker at the shop in the Waterloo Bridge Road, and, believing them to compare so unfavourably with his own ambitious efforts at portraiture, he had come insensibly to the conclusion that Dicky was no artist at all.

Then, too, one evening when Dicky had been at his classes he had climbed up to the attic bedroom and found there the blocks of wood upon which Dicky was desultorily working. He smiled as he picked them up. In that stage they looked so much like the work of a child that he had become convinced of Dicky’s i lability.

“I’ll show him some of my portraits one of these days,” said he aloud, and one of those days of Dicky’s depression he did.

With a great deal of pomp and ceremony, calling up his wife to The Studio and arranging the light from the window in the roof, he unlocked a big cupboard door from which he took out his portrait of Madame Marco, framed in a frame of massive gilt.

“There, now,” said he, and, swelling his chest, he stood away with pride to look at it, “I don’t show my work—do I, darling? I shall never sell this, not because I want to and can’t, but because I could —but won’t.”

He crossed the room, laying an arm heavily on Dicky’s shoulder.

“Twenty sittings, my boy—all a labour of love. You see the foreshortening of that arm. Sargent might have done a thing like that. I’ll point out the beauties to you. You can see them, too—you are an artist—you will be one day—but I’ll point them out. That flesh colour—I don’t boast about it— there ir is. You might prick it and it ’ud bleed. The eyes—just go up close and look at them—no! closer still. Don’t they speak? I worked and worked at them till of their own perfection they looked at me and said—stop! And the likeness. What can I say— it is my darling. Sometimes I fake it out when I am working alone up here, and she keeps me company. Now tell me what you think—just what comes into your mind. I defy criticism. You could not hurt me if you tried.” lie thrust both his hands deep in his pockets. He stood with his legs apart; his face glowed with satisfaction. In Dicky’s silence he imagined he heard the glowing terms of praise and could not from where he stood see the twinkle of laughter .n Madame Marco’s eyes.

“Am I to say exactly what I think?’’ said Dicky, turning round, and though the twinkle in Madame Marco’s eyes became a sudden frown he took no notice of,t. His mood had been desperation for many days by then. He did not care what happened to him.

“Exactly what you think,” replied Monsieur Marco, still i.i the fullest confidence of voice.

“Then I think,” said Dicky, “that it’s a photograph you’ve stuck on to a piece of canvas. It isn’t a picture, you’ve only just coloured it—that’s all.”

With the airiness of his conceit he might have carried off the sting of adverse criticism, but to be found out in his own deceit, this was more than Monsieur Marco could bear. His cheeks flamed up a scarlet in his anger. His moustachios bristled, and words spluttered on his lips.

“I’ve never been so insulted in my life I” he cried. “A coloured photograph! By God, sir—when you paint as well as that go down on your knees and— and—-thank—God—for your—your ability. A coloured photograph! To me! A greater artist than he can ever hope to be! My darling, what shall I do?”

But, without waiting Madame Marco’s advice, he acted on the uncontrollable impulse of his anger.

“Get out of this house, sir!” he shouted. “Out you go this very minute and take your filthy pay with you!”

He took some money out of his pocket, carefully counted out five shillings, and flung them with a fine gesture of disregard upon the floor. They rolled past Dicky’s feet. He took no notice of them. “Pick up that five shillings, sir I” cried Monsieur Marco, who had never been so generous with money in his life before.

“Thank you—it’s yours,” said Dicky quietly, and he walked towards the door.

“You’re not going to take it?” demanded Monsieur Marco, scarcely believing it could be true.

“No,” said Dicky.

Madame Marco looked at him in pity.

“You little fool,” she whispered, and he just heard her.

“Am I?” he exclaimed bitterly. “I’ve been a fool to stay here as long as I have. Do you think it does me any good to paint those beastly skies and seas? I’d sooner go and paint signs over shop windows.”

Words w ere beyond Monsieur Marco now. Had he not been an arrant coward at heart, he would have taken Dicky by the collar of his coat and flung him down the attic stairs. That is what he would dearly have loved to do. He believed that it would have made him a great hero!n Madame Marco’s eyes. But there was an ugly look in Dicky’s face as he stood there in the heat of his defiance, so Monsieur Marco called a ready spirit of discretion to his aid, and, instead of proving himself a hero, he strode to the door, opened it, and flung out his arm in the direction of the stairs.

“Get out!” he muttered, and, as it sounded well and he believed he must look impressive, standing like that, he repeated it. “Get out!” said he.

Dicky walked through the door to his room where he straightway began his packing. It was late in the afternoon and he was pressing the last of his few possessions into the limited capacity of his little bag, when the door opened and Madame Marco came in.

“Are you coming down to tea?” she asked.

“To tea?,” said he. “Yes.”

“No—thank you.”

“But you’re not really going?” she exclaimed.

“I am indeed,” he replied.

“But he didn’t mean it. He’s beginning to be sorry now—you’re such a help. If you go and say it was not a coloured photograph, he’ll have forgotten all about it by to-morrow.”

“But it was a coloured photograph,” declared Dicky, “a photograph enlarged. Do you mean to say he’d be satisfied with a lie like that?”

“He would,” said she.

“Well—I’ve said I’m going and I’m going. I wouldn’t stop for anything now. You can tell him that. I don’t want to see him again.”

Such was the desperation of his mood that no persuasion of hers could detain him. As they sat over their tea in the dining room downstairs, they heard the hall door slam and looked at each other in silent surprise.

Monsieur Marco peeped out behind the curtains to watch him go by them, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he returned to the table.

“That boy,” said he, “will never be an artist, my darling—he has not got the perseverance. He might have learnt a lot from me. I had promised him one of these days he should paint a shipwreck— instead of which now he will be a shipwreck—heh? Ha! ha!”

He took her hands and drew her arms about his neck.

“lie will be a shipwreck—heh!”

She laughed at his little joke and she kissed him. And that was quite sufficient for Monsieur Marco; he did not ask her why she sighed.

CHAPTER II

IT had not entered into Dicky’s calculations, when he refused the five shillings which Monsieur Marco had flung at him, thar he only had three pennies in his pocket. Pride is a luxury only the rich can afford. That was why Madame Marco had called him a little fool. He was far too poor to indulge In it.

It was not until he was out in the streets that he remembered the extent of his possessions. Three pennies! Enough to get up to town! He looked at a passing clock. It was a quarter to six. With good fortune he might find the shop open in the Waterloo Bridge Road. Mr. Nibbs would lend him some money for the immediate present. It did not occur to him to return to Monsieur Marco’s and demand the five shillings there which were rightly his. A sense of humour might have suggested it. There would have been a touch of comedy ‘n his return, asking for that five shillings with which Monsieur Marco had been so loath to part. But, in his pride, it never occurred to him.

He jumped onto a passing train and soon the sight of Greenwich Observatory was lost amidst the tangle of house-tops. lie had left Monsieur Marco’s atelier; was on his way to a sterner school, a harder master than he had served as yet. For when at last he reached the Waterloo Bridge Road the little print-seller’s shop was shut. The old worn shutters stared down at him, expressionless and without sympathy.

He peered through the letter box. There was no light within. A policeman stood on the other side of the read, watching him until he moved away. There was all the night in front of him. He looked helplessly to right and left, wondering where he was going to sleep.

Turning then towards the Strand, as he had gone that first day when he had sold the picture to Mr. Nibbs, the association of ideas brought the thought of Constance to his mind.

She had said, when they had parted, that f ever he needed help he was to come to her. But, as he thought of it, he knew it was more than just help that he needed. The utter loneliness of his position then demanded more than mere assistance. He wanted sympathy. He wanted even more than that. In the last few weeks, since he had learnt of Dorothy, the absence of any affection in his life was like a hunger that he could not satisfy. Now each moment, as he reviewed the situation in his mind, the remembrance of all those fine qualities in Constance rose up before his eyes. He recalled that day in the picture-framer’s shop when, with a heart he could almost see beating beneath her bodice, she had taken up arms in his defence. There was that day in the gardens in Kew, those memorable moments of his folly which, truly enough, as Madame Marco had said, he was coming to regard with less and less remorse. Her generosity, too, with her money, all these things came back to him. But the faster they found resurrection in his mind, the more firmly did his pride bid him take no advantage of them.

He had come by this time with his thoughts to the oil shop in Drury Lane, and here the almost childish folly of his pride forced h,m, after one glance at the familiar windows, to turn away.

If indeed it had come to sleeping in the streets, he told himself, “then for God’s sake!” he exclaimed beneath his breath—“let me have the courage to do it.” So, with quickening strides, he set off for the Polytechnic Institute, where for the next few hours in the classes, at. least, he was sure of a roof to his head.

There was not much work done that evening in the life room. Always there are some who can afford to waste their time, to whom art is a game and their pursuit of it something in the nature of a practical joke. Yet. notwithstanding the distractions when the master was out of the room, never had Dicky worked so seriously. The study in oils he did that evening was sold some months later by Mr. Nibbs for the paltry sum of two pounds, yet as a studio sketch, as a study not of the figure but of a model in all the smoky atmosphere and mystery of The Studio, it was ingenious; it was almost masterly.

For some little while a girl student standing near him left her easel, coming to watch him as he worked.

With delicate and suggestive brush strokes he had taken the eye beyond the model’s throne to the dim line of students’ faces beyond. One high light upon the model’s shoulder was the culminating interest in the picture. But for that, it all drifted into the atmosphere of the room leading the mind on tip-toe of imagination beyond and away into the whole spirit of the surroundings.

“Doing that for a paper?” she asked presently.

Dicky shook his head.

“Wish I were,” said he.

“Any paper would take it,” she replied.

“Would they? You don’t know the papers.”

With a dry laugh he thought hack to his own experience. He knew what Channing would say to such a sketch as that.

“They want more definition,” said he; “the coloured photograph.”

She let him continue in silence for a time; then she enquired if he did work for any of the dealers.

He put his brushes down and lit a cigarette.

“Do you think I’m selling pictures, then?” said he.

“Well—aren’t you?”

His laugh was dry again. But by infinitesimal degrees he was coming to the humour of his situation. What would she say if he told her that he was going to sleep in the streets that night? It was at this thought he laughed. Yet there still was bitterness in it.

“No,” he said at last, “I’m not selling pictures— well, I’ve sold two since I came to London in eight months—two pounds each.”

“Figure?”

“Landscape.” I should think you’re good at that—you’re afraid of this figure, aren’t you?”

“No, why should I be? I don’t just feel it, that’s all. I just feel like doing exactly what I see. What you call facing things as they are—eh—well, I feel like facing ‘em.”

She looked at him quizzically, and then, as the master came by, returned to her easel. The master stopped at Dicky’s back and watched him for a moment.

“Do you think you’re learning anything?” he asked at length.

Dicky stood aside.

“Yes,” said he.

“What?”

The man’s tone was abrupt. Had there been any sympathy in it, Dicky might have looked for more. There was none and he looked for none.

“Do you want to know all the things I’m learning?” he enquired.

“All the things—yes.”

“Well, I’m learning that the less you learn by rote, and the more you see by nature, the better for you. That’s one thing. I’m learning that when a chap’s up against it, so to speak, he’d better look it right in the face—I’m learning-”

By this time the master had recovered from his astonishment. He was there to teach, not to listen to platitudes. With a little more perception of human nature, Le might have recognised that note of bitterness in Dicky’s voice and known that something was the matter. As it was, he ignored it.

“I don’t want you to talk nonsense,” said he. “I meant what are you learning from the model? Nothing as far as I can see. What’s all this blue? That draped background is dark purple.”

“That blue,” said Dicky, “is the smoke from the numerous pipes and cigarettes that are burning in the room.”

“Well, you’re not here to paint that. You’re here to learn the figure, and I’m here to teach you it. If you go and paint daubs like that, I can’t teach you anything. Paint it all out and draw that figure in properly.”

“Supposing I were painting that to sell it?” said Dicky. “Supposing I wanted money—aren’t I at liberty, if I pay my fees, to come here and make it?” “Certainly—then you don’t want any help from me. Do you expect to sell that?”

“No,” said Dicky.

“So I should have thought,” said he.

“I don’t expect to sell anything,” Dicky retorted. “It’s a bit of luck when I do.”

“Were you a student here?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“ Nowhere.”

The master turned on his heel with a laugh. “You ought to be careful,” said he. “You’re getting ideas before you know what to do with them. If you like to draw that figure properly, I’ll tell you where you’re wrong when I come round again.”

A smile came into Dicky’s eyes. His sketch was finished. He took the canvas from the board and pinned a paper in its place. More than an hour later, when the class was just breaking up, the master returned. He was new to them all and slow -n reading the character of his pupils. It was the last thing he expected of human nature to find that Dicky should have done what he suggested, and when he saw the charcoal drawing of the model he stood astonished but in silence.

It was not that it was perfect by any means, but the faults were such that for the moment he could not place his finger on them. In every way it was the best of any he had seen that evening, and the girl student, who had overheard their conversation, having watched Dicky’s drawing in charcoal from beginning to end, stood by with a smile of anticipation on her face.

He felt her presence and looked round.

“The class is over—you can go home,” said he. She nodded her head and slowly edged away. °Well,” said Dicky at last.

“Well,” said the master, “now here, of course, you—well, you come more into my province, don’t you?”

“I’ve no doubt I do,” said Dicky, “and I want to know where it’s wrong.”

“Well, let me see now—isn’t—isn’t that arm a bit short?” He held up his hand to the model. “Just one moment, please—one moment. You see, it comes—it comes---”

“Comes where?” said Dicky.

“Oh, I don’t know; perhaps it’s right.”

“The shoulder doesn’t come round this way enough,” said Dicky. “That ’ud make it longer.” “Yes—yes—I knew there was something. Do you think the head’s large enough?”

“No.”

“And the modelling of that leg’s not good.”

“No—it’s rotten.”

I he master pursed his lips. He was accustomed to speak about drawings that were hopeless from every point of view. The general correctness of this one had disarmed him. To be a master In an art school is to be a failure, is mostly to spend one’s days watching failures at their work. Competence is not a quality that a master is competent to deal with. This little man was at a loss for more to say.

“But it’s very good in the time,” he went on presently. “You ought to do all right, you know. But don’t waste your time over that other sort of stuff. It doesn’t do you any good. You’ve got a natural aptitude, you know. How long have you been here?”

“Nearly two months.”

“And no lessons before that?”

“No.”

“Oh—then quite a natural aptitude.” He dismissed the model with a glance. “You’ll sell your work soon—if you don’t try too soon. It’s bad to begin selling pictures too soon.”

“Is it?” said Dicky. “I don’t think it ’ud hurt me.”

“No? Well, beware of … Good-night—goodnight.”

Dicky watched him as he walked away. He was going home, no doubt, to a cheerful little sup per, to the comfort of a glowing fire and a warm bed. Yet for all these possessions, as his eye followed the little man, Dicky would not have changed places with him for the world.

On the steps outside in Regent Street he found the girl student waiting by the door.

“Seen Mr. Mason go out?” she enquired.

“No.”

“I expect he’s gone, then,” said she, and she walked down the steps by Dicky’s side, successful and pleased with her little subterfuge, for she had been waiting for him.

“Why do they have fools like that man is?” she asked presently—“the master, I mean—Mr. Thing-um-m e-bob.”

“He’s not a fool,” said Dicky. “I expect he knows a good deal about the figure- Lord! what a life.”

“Ah—you’re lucky,” said she. “You’re all right.”

And somehow for the next hour or so that was as warm to him as a cheerful supper, a crackling fire or a warm bed.

At her tube station he left her. She vanished with the crowd of others coming from the theatres; disappeared like a little animal into the warm heart of the earth. Then he turned away and walked down Regent Street towards the brighter lights of Piccadilly Circus.

“I’m all right, am I?” he kept on saying to himself. “I’m all right.” But the air was growing colder every moment and each time .t sounded less comforting than the last.

CHAPTER III

A NIGHT in winter in the streets of London is not an easily forgotten thing. A thousand times Dicky cursed his folly for not going to the oil shop in Drury Lane, yet as many times then was glad of it. There were other creatures more miserable than himself, with no ambition such as his to keep warm the spirit within them, men and women and children who had to face that night without a hope of shelter.

Till two in the morning, people were moving in the streets, the county council men in their oil-skins were cleaning the roadways. The mere sight of humanity kept a certain warmth within him. He walked round and round the frequented thoroughfares, his hands deep in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up. Only when some miserable woman passed him on the pavement did he feel the real chill of life in the marrow of his bones. Some looked at him with tired eyes, some spoke an enticing word. Usually it was a word of fatuous, ironical endearment—such a word as every man has used to the woman whom he loves, and, hearing it thus, wonders if he can ever use it again.

Yet there was a bravado of courage about them which sometimes shamed the drooping spirit n himself. They walked with their heads held high, that well-known walk of pinching shoes, struggling against fatigue to be coquettish. Their voices were cheerful. Never did they whine. Tradeswomen, not beggars, they were until the very last; and, as the hours drew on, when they knew well that custom was not coming their way, still never showed despair, but, with a marvellous bravery, faced the bankruptcy of that night alone.

So long as they were abroad upon the streets, Dicky kept burning the tiny spark of fortitude that brought him warmth. There was the faint, chill interest of life to keep the bitter cold away.

Down Oxford Street one little girl looked to the right and left, then crossed the road to speak to him.

“Take me ’ome, dearie,” she said, and her teeth were faintly chattering.

He came jerkily to a sudden halt and stood then looking down at her. She was not more than eighteen years old, but life already was finding its way into her face. Her clothes were scanty. Warmth and comfort had been sacrificed to a pitiable show of finery—the shop-window bravely decked to hide the miserable poverty within.

“I’m not going home,” said Dicky quietly.

“Well, take me to an ’otel, then—I don’t want nothin’.” And she added to her persuasions in a matter-of-fact way that might have been comical to one older than Dicky. lie shuddered as he heard her.

“I’ve been walkin’ about ever since four o’clock this afternoon,” she went on, reaching for his pity. “A bit sickenin’, I can tell yer. Come on—be a sport.”

The grotesqueness of that invitation made him smile.

“I’m in the same predicament as you are,” said he.

“Same what?” she asked.

“Same way—same difficulty. I’ve got to sleep out to-night.”

“Go on!”

“Quite true. I shall turn into a doorway sooner or later. I can’t stand this cold much longer.”

She locked him up and down.

“You’re a fine sort,” she said with a grin. “What ’ave you been doin’?”

He shrugged his shoulders. The thought of explaining things to her was amusing, but on those cold pavements seemed scarcely worth while.

She turned away at last. lie had neither money nor kind to offer her. He realised her cheerfulness betrayed a greater courage than his own. She looked over her shoulder at him and winked.

“Well, good luck,” she said, and, still standing there, he watched her flirting down the street with those pinching high-heeled shoes towards a dim figure that was approaching out of the distance.

“My God!” he muttered and walked away.

When two o’clock had struck and all that terrible city for one moment rang full of churches in his ears, then the streets began to empty. Imperceptibly the human element drifted away, the night began to swallow up its own. Inversely as a crowd collects from nowhere in an empty street, so these creatures of unhappy chance dispersed and faded away into nothingness. Through Oxford Street, through Regent Street, wherever he walked, Dicky found himself alone. It was then the bitter cold found its mastery of him. His teeth were chattering The thought of sleeping in a doorway on the ground, which at first his mind had refused, insensibly now was forcing itself upon him.

He had set out from the Polytechnic steps with the belief that he could walk the streets all night. The idea of being turned out of a doorway by a policeman had no liking for him then. But now he was coming to know that this walking of the streets needs a stern and bitter training. Every limb grew wearied to exhaustion. He commenced to look out for a deep and friendly doorway, caring no longer if the police disturbed his rest, so only he might lie down and close his eyes.

The doorway of a shop in Wigmore Street of offered him the deepened shadow that he sought Looking up and down the empty street, smiling, a smile which his chattering teeth made a grin, to find how quickly necessity teaches, he crept under the porch and dropped down upon the step. Would his father refuse him that bed in his old room now, he thought, and fell asleep.

At what hour it was he had no means of knowing, but he awakened with a start. Someone had entered his doorway. The police had come to move him on. He sat up, blinking his eyes. But it was not the police. An old woman, wrapped in rags, carrying a wooden tray of match-boxes, had seated herself on the step beside him.

On the moment it came to his mind to be up and going, but relief at the discovery that he was not to be disturbed let the weight of his eyelids droop again. He settled himself back into his corner. Half returning to his sleep, he yet had interest enough to watch her. She might have been any age. Once the years have made their mark upon these creatures of the streets, there is no way of telling how many have been added.

With more care for them than for herself, she placed her tray of matches in the sheltered corner, covering them with a rag from her body against the wetting of the ever possible rain. When circumstance demands you take it at a discount, a few possessions may be dearer than life. She looked after her matches first as a highwayman to his horse. Then, rubbing herself in her clothes against the door at her back, she drew up closer to Dicky to steal the warmth of his body.

In a first sensation of disgust, he shrank into his corner, held his breath as the odour of the rags reached his nostrils. This seemed life with a vengeance, and, like most in their first acquaintance of it, appeared nothing but horrible. He was to learn the humour, the cleaner sentiment of it then.

She took no notice of his movement, said nothing, but, determined in her intention, moved nearer still.

He made as if to rise and go. This was loathsome. There were other doorways. His shuddering was not from cold alone and when she caught hold of his arm he felt the touch through his blood running like cold water.

“Sit down,” she said. The only favour he found in her voice was its human note. It was a voice of the streets.

“Sit down,” she repeated. “You ain’t goin’ out of ’ere.”

“Why not?” said he. Involuntarily he waited to hear.

“Yer cold, aren’t yer? Ain’t pipin’ ’ot in ’ere— is it? And it’s a damned sight colder outside.”

“I don’t mind the cold so much.”

But his teeth chattered and betrayed him.

She chuckled and still held his arm.

“All right, I know all about that,” said she. “Yer dainty to it yet, aren’t yer? Think yer can stick it by yerself? Just come to it, I s’pose. Ever slep’ out afore?”

“No.”

“Thought so. Dainty to it—that’s whatcher are. Likes a corner by yerself. I know. Bloody cold, ain’t it?” She rubbed herself in her clothes again and saw the look in his face. “That’s for warm,” she said with a grin. “You’re a kid—aren’t yer? I don’t want to know nuffin’ about yer. Yer meet all sorts in doorways—I do. ’Ow do yer fed now?”

It was true, he could feel the warmth of her body as she leant against him. At first it came to him in a thought of how chill the wind was whistling down the street outside. When she asked, he knew it was the warmth of her next to him. His teeth had- stopped chattering. She was comfortable, no doubt. Even those first feelings of revulsion slowly, insensibly, were being lulled in him. He still would sooner have gone, leaving her the doorway to herself, but with what excuse that must not uncharitably offend her?

As he came to think of it, it was a fair exchange, the warmth of her body for the warmth of Its. And if this were life, as, indeed, it seemed, was it so horrible, or so ugly as he had at first believed?

Doubtless he would have continued to find it just as ugly if, as the moments went by, he had not come to appreciate the difference between that doorway and the naked street outside.

“ ‘Ow do yer feel?” she repeated when he had forgotten her question and when she had forgotten she had asked it.

“All right,” said he.

“Warmer?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll get used to it. Few weeks, and you’ll be lookin’ out for a body in a doorway, same as I do. But strange at first, ain’t it? I remember the first man as came and slep’ up alongside of me. I pushed ’im off quick enough. ‘like yer cheek,’ I says. ‘Never mind me cheek,’’e says. “Yer bloomin’ well keep yerself warm,’ ’e says. But no—like a fool, I gets up and never slep’ a wink that night —not for the cold I didn’t.”

Dicky smiled sleepily and, turning his head away, he moved his body a little closer to hers. She was quick enough in answering to it. In silence they shifted about until their positions were comfortable. And in that silence, Dicky felt a strong desire to laugh.

Philosophy is not a science that you may learn. Circumstance leads you to it, and, like a horse to the water, the drinking is to your own discretion. It should go ill with you if you do not grasp t then; and to find that life in its bitterest deprivations is just as funny and perhaps just as tragic as any clown in a circus, that is the foundation of it all.

The moment that Dicky, discovering himself in such a situation as this, conceived the desire to laugh was a turning point in his life, greater than that when he had left the Mill. He had come by chance upon the clown in the circus, and in his own despite was forced to laugh.

CHAPTER IV

IT was the grey dawn that awakened him again, when the feeble light of day crept timidly down the streets. life was astir once more. There came to his ears the sudden rattle of milk cans, the sounds of the dustmen emptying their bins. But beside him, in her rags, the old woman still slept on. It needed more than the light of day, or the lethargic sounds of the early morning, to stir her from her dreams. He looked with curiosity at her face that he had only dimly seen as yet, and, though he had first shuddered to find himself awake beside such a bedfellow, yet there was nothing in her face to bear out his disgust.

She was no longer young. Can that be said against her? Her cheeks were pale and thin, but there was no grossness there. It is not to be taken for granted that those who live upon the streets live evilly. There were patience and forbearance in the repose of her lips, a certain proud contentment in the closed eyes. She was old, she was ugly, she was dirty, she was a pauper—these were the sins against her, the only sins Dicky could see. Her virtues, as he had found them that night, were her common sense; she had refused to let him behave like a fool because she had known the nature of folly herself, and, above all, she had been fair and just in a human transaction. She had lent the warmth of her body, every degree of it, for the warmth of his.

He crept gently to his feet lest he should disturb her, propping her weary body against the corner he had left. She still slept. It needed the rough hand of the law to waken her. He was conscious as he came out into the street again that something had been learnt by him that night. He had realised the law of life which demands that you must give as you would take, with an open hand, a free spirit, and a heart to see the everlasting humour of it all.

Never in his life till then had Dicky realised the full delight of his existence, the joyous adventure of the struggle that still lay hopefully before him, the glorious abandonment of chance which Circumstance was free to give to all. lie came away from that doorway where he had slept, and, though an empty stomach was teasing every thought while the grey chill of the early morning made his teeth chatter again, he hummed light-heartedly to himself as he walked quickly towards the Strand.

Mr. Nibbs opened bis shop at half-past eight. He set out to get his breakfast there. By the time he reached it, the shutters were down. His own picture, “The Scavenger,” was hanging in the fore front of the window. Even his eagerness for food could not prevent him from standing there a moment to admire it. He had not seen it in a frame until then. The artist alone knows how a frame will add to his self-respect.

“When I’ve a studio,” he muttered. “My God, when I’ve a studio!”

There again only an artist could know all that he meant by that.

At last he turned into the shop. A man he had never seen before was standing behind the counter, cutting out the gold mount to a frame with the little pointed knife that Mr. Nibbs had always used himself.

“Where’s Mr. Nibbs?” asked Dicky in some concern.

“ ’E ain’t ’ere this morning.”

“Where is he?”

“ ’F. ain’t ’ere.”

“I know. I can see that. Isn’t he coming this morning?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The man looked at him, unexpected authority resenting these enquiries. He was in charge. If anything was wanted, he was there to do it.

“ ’E ain’t comin’,” he replied. “That’s why I’m ‘ere to do ’is job for ’im.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Dicky.

The man leant casually on the counter. He flattered himself he knew how to deal with people of this kidney.

“What’s that to do with you?” he enquired.

Dicky curbed his impatience. He wanted his breakfast.

“I’m an artist,” he replied quietly. “Mr. Nibbs sells my pictures—you’ve got one now in the window—in the middle of the window—‘The Scavenger,’ and I want to see Mr. Nibbs most particularly.”

“Well, I’m ’ere to take any orders.”

Dicky looked at him critically. These thoughts of his breakfast were mastering every other consideration. He felt the matter needed careful handling.

“Well, the fact is,” said he, and he grinned in anticipation of the man’s amazement, “the fact is, I—I want to borrow sixpence. I want some breakfast.- I’m—well, I’m hungry.”

It was more than mere amazement. The man stood up from the counter, saying, “Well, I’m damned!” And, having said it once, he said it again.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” remarked Dicky.

“What yer mean yer sorry to ’ear that? I am damned. I never heard such a thing in my life— cornin’ in ’ere and askin’ me for sixpence to get yer breakfast. Why if I liked, I could get a police man and ’ave yer run in. Friend of Mr Nibbs! Wonder ’ow many friends Mr. Nibbs ’ud ’ave if everybody was in want of a breakfast.”

Dicky felt the pains of hunger, felt them the more when he saw the hopelessness of his case. “Don’t you believe me, then?” he asked seriously. “No, I don’t. ’Ow am I to know who you are? Mr. Nibbs ’as gone to bed with a cold, and he’s put me in charge ’ere to look after the shop till ’e’s well again. I should like to see ’is face if I told ’im I gave sixpence to the first person as came in and said they wanted a breakfast.”

“I know what he’d say,” said Dicky.

“Oh, do yer?”

“Yes; he’d say a breakfast wasn’t enough to keep a man alive through the day.”

“Oh, would ’e? You know Mr. Nibbs very well, don’t cher? Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll just clear out, becos I’ve got work to do.”

Dicky regarded him cynically. He was so pleased with himself, so confident of his knowledge in human nature. With all that confidence, the man returned his look bcldly, defiantly. He had nothing to be ashamed of; nothing that Dicky could ever know. The advantage was all on his side. Dicky was begging for his breakfast. Poverty is a crime to some, a crime with no extenuating circumstances.

“I suppose you’ve never been hungry,” said Dicky in his contempt.

“No, thank yer—never. I’ve always ‘ad my meals, and I’ve always worked for ’em.”

“What a comfort that must be when you see another man going hungry.”

“Yes—mustn’t it! Now, look ’ere, none of your lip! If you don’t clear out of this shop, I’ll fetch a bobby to yer. Beggin’ ain’t permitted in this country, yer know.”

The chance of his breakfast was gone now. Plainly he recognised that. He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the shop. It was a waste of time to stay there.

“I hope you’ll be here when Mr. Nibbs comes back,” said he. “I should like to see your face when I tell him.”

That was poor enough satisfaction. To add to it, he slammed the door as be went out, forgetting the pneumatic contrivance to prevent the door from slamming of itself. Expecting to hear with some little gratification to his mood the crash behind him, it merely stopped some few inches from the frame, then closed quietly and gently by itself.

That seemed to him quite funny. He saw the humour of that and laughed out loud. Looking out through a chink in the rows of pictures, the man inside saw him walking away with a broad smile on his face, and said he was damned again. He knew that Dicky had not wanted his breakfast then. That was not the countenance of a man who was going hungry for a meal.

Bat Dicky smiled to himself all the way across Waterloo Bridge. He could not forget his sublime impotence with that door. He had meant the slam of it to shake half the pictures in the shop, and that ridiculous breathing sound was all that had reached his ears. Instead of thinking of his hunger, he drifted into a contemplation upon the uselessness of rage.

However, the need of his breakfast was still there, but by now he knew where he was going to get it. That night in the streets, it seemed, had rid him of the folly of pride. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation now, he was going to Constance with a clear conscience for company. There was no accusing thought of Dorothy at his elbow; he was free, free as air, and, for the first time since he had left Eckington, felt glad of it. Youth is quick to recognise the inevitable. If he had lost in romance, he had gained in freedom, and that morning, as the cold air nipped him to a spurt of energy, he felt that he could fling regrets to the wind that chilled him. A sight of Dorothy would doubtless have overthrown the airy inconsequence of his humour then. But there was no Dorothy to be seen, only the little girls with their novelettes in their well-worn muffs, going up to their offices in the West.

Not one of them would have believed that that striding figure, full of energy, the collar of h.s coat turned up, his hands deep-thrust within his pockets, could ever have slept in the streets the night before, or was aching and empty for a meal. Insensibly, as Dicky passed them all, they quickened their steps. He was carrying energy like a current with him. They saw h’m cross the Strand and dart up Drury Lane. Afore than one of them perhaps had wondered who he was.

Reaching the oil shop at the corner of Great Queen Street, he did not pause as he had done the night before, but marched straight in, breathing the old familiar smells of paraffin, oils and soap.

A new boy was behind the counter, cleaning his hands with an oily rag.

“Run upstairs,” said Dicky, “and tell Mss Baldwin there’s a gentleman in the shop to see her.”

Energy was there in his voice, too, and the boy ran with the oily rag in his hand.

He heard her footsteps descending the stairs. With heart beating, he stood there waiting until she should turn the corner of that bundle of brooms.

And when she saw who it was her heart was up in her mouth, too.

“Dicky!” she cried.

A welcome is worth having on an empty stomach. He swallowed his emotion, felt giddy, and knew just how hungry he was.

CHAPTER V

EXCITED and with an eagerness she had no reason or desire to conceal, she took him upstairs to the sitting room above the shop, holding his hand, dragging him after her.

“Mother’s in bed,” she said. “Went to a theatre last night; goes out with some friends afterwards to their ’ouse and doesn’t get ’ome till two o’clock this morning. Goin’ it, ain’t she? My Lordl You’ve come back again! Never thought you would, yer know. Never thought it—not once.” She closed the door of the sitting room behind them and came back to take a long look at him. Just gladness, just pleasure would not describe the joy she had in seeing him once more. She had kept her promise, had been true to the letter of her word. From the day when they had parted she had never sent for him, never troubled him; had counted him lost and steeled herself with a fine courage to face the knowledge that her heart was bankrupt.

Now he had returned—why, she did not wait to question. lie was there, of his own accord and all the hope of which her nature was possessed rose triumphantly to greet him. Yet what it was she hoped for, she could not have said. Every sensation was nameless to her in those moments, except the joy of seeing him.

“’Eavens! This is good!” she exclaimed, and put her hands on his shoulders, turning his face to the light. “How are you gettin’ on? What are you doin’? Still at Greenwich—all ships, ain’t it? Sold any more pictures? D’yer remember that man we’d a row with—the picture-framer? Saw ’im the other day—passed ’im in the street. You should ‘ave seen ’im look at me. What did I do? I burst out laughin’. Why—what’s the matter with yer? You look as white as a sheet. What’s ’appened?”

He smiled—smiled with as much confidence as he could.

“I’m so hungry,” he said simply. “I haven’t had anything since yesterday morning, and last night I had to sleep out in the streets”—he laughed now as he thought of it—“a doorway in Wigmore Street.”

She asked no more questions, where a man would have asked a thousand. The next instant she had seated him in a chair and had left the room. Before almost he had understood her going she was back again with plates and cup and saucer in her hand. Not another word did she’ say to him until he was seated at the table, eagerly eating the food she had placed before him.

To wait upon his urgent needs, to minister to his slightest wants, indeed, she was in her element then. There might be no help she could give him in his work, but this, with nothing forgotten, not a thing he might ask for omitted, here she could excel. By the side of his plate she placed matches and a packet of cigarettes and then sat down to watch him eat. When for a while he had eaten in silence, he looked up at her, into her eyes, smiling with all self-confidence returned. Her heart jumped up to meet that glance, for it was into her eyes he had looked.

“I wonder if the poor wretch I slept with last night is eating a breakfast like this now,” said he, and, once she heard him speak of his own accord, she knew she could question him then, could gratify the curiosity that had begun to burn in her from the moment she had laid the last dish on the table.

From the day he entered Monsieur Marco’s atelier to the day he left, he told her everything. But now, had he had judgement of himself, he would have been amazed at the humour he found in it all. Again and again he brought the laughter to her lips as he described that amazing trickster with his yards of pictures and his consummate conceit. And when it came to describing the portrait of Madame Marco in her gaudy gown, he laughed aloud himself, was like a boy again, and all because he- had learnt the give and take in life from the woman with whom he had shared his doorway, all because chance had led h..n into the circus where every man who will may be a clown to make life go the merrier.

“Well, what are you going to do now?” she asked, not daring to hope that he would ever be a debtor to her bounty once again. “Are yer goin’ ’ome?” With apprehension quivering in her, playing a thin note of trepidation in her voice, she uttered the thing she feared. When he shook his head, her eyes lit up once more; she drew the breath deep down into her breast.

“I’ve been home,” said he. “I went home about a fortnight ago. I was going to stay the night. That was my idea, but the pater didn’t seem to share it.’”

“ ’E turned you out?”

“Something like that.”

“My Gawd! What a father!”

“I don’t believe he liked it any more than I did,” said Dicky, for now, in retrospect, he seemed to understand that stormy interview better than he had.

“What did your sister say?”

“She was for coming with me.”

“So would I. I like your sister.”

“Yes—but surely that would have been too terrible for him. Anne’s all he’s got now.”

“And the other? What did she say?”

Here was the thin note of apprehension once more. He had told her all about Dorothy; it was Dorothy she knew he had been home to Eckington to see.

“She didn’t know.” said Dicky.

“Didn’t know?”

“No—it happened after I’d seen her.”

“Why didn’t you go back and tell ’er?”

“Because”—he screwed up his lips, but there was no good his pretending that he did not care, that he had not been hurt, or had forgotten the pain of it by this—“because I’d found out already that she— didn’t care for me any more. She’s, going to be married.”

Then he looked up at her and smiled—a smile that would have brought the heart out of any woman with less sympathy to her nature than Constance. For, beside the pain she felt for him, there cried aloud in her the triumphant belief that she could be to him what no Dorothy had ever been; beside the memory she knew he still cherished was the knowledge that he was there beside her, without a home, without money, even hungry for a meal, perhaps hungry for love as well, and she was there to give him one and all of them.

So. when she realised what he had told her, out came her hand across the table, and the grip of her fingers was better than words. With instinctive discretion, she made no comment. It is not often one woman knows when to refrain from criticising another; but here Constance was wise with the wisdom of love, and she was silent.

“And what are you going to do now?” she asked at last.

He shook his head and laughed.

“To tell you the honest truth,” said he, “I was going on sleeping in the streets like I did last night till Mr. Nibbs came back to the shop again. Other people do, my goodness! It isn’t such a terrible thing, after all. It’s worst just now, I suppose, this time of year. But it won’t be for long, you know. Mr. Nibbs’ll be back in a few days; I can work in his shop then if I can’t get anything else. Anyhow, I’ve paid for my night classes. They can’t stop me from going to them. Food’s the only thing. I had to come to you this morning.”

She let him say it all, smiling as she listened. It was such nonsense, such delightful nonsense when he talked like that. It was so sublimely conceivable to think of her lying in a warm bed while all night long he shivered in an open doorway. When he had done talking his nonsense, she laughed.

“Now you listen to me,” she said. “Up in the top of the ’ouse there’s a bedroom where I stood once, ’olding a slop-pail while you put a little ’uman interest into yer picture—that’s where you’re goin’ to sleep, an’ no foolin’ about it, either. D’yer think I could sleep ’ere for five minutes if I thought you was out in the streets? Where’s yer bag of things?”

“I left it at the Polytechnic last right.”

“Well, you bloomin’ well go and get it, and I’ll tell mother she’s got a lodger.”

“But, Connie, I—I can’t pay.”

“No—and ’oo’s asked yer to? Don’t be such a blitherin’ idiot. ’Ow can yer pay when yer ’aven’t got it? If it’s got to be paid, I’ll pay it. But I know what mother’ll say. Do you remember the day you were on yer bed cryin’, an’ she come up and found yer there?”

He nodded his head.

“Well, she ain’t forgotten that yet. There’s somethin’ .of the old fool in mother. She’s got a ’eart, soft like putty. She ain’t fit to be left alone, yer know. You go and fetch yer bag of things and come back ’ere. I’ll see to ’er.”

With the comforting sensation of being managed over matters he was far too inconsequent to manage for himself, Dicky departed, and, when he returned, found Mrs. Baldwin with her hair in curling pins, serving in the shop.

A broad smile of welcome spread over her face as she saw him. She winked knowingly, as though something were up, and, when the customer had gone, beckoned him to a back part of the premises, where they were hidden behind the bundles of brooms and all those numberless tilings that depend from the ceiling in an overcrowded oil-man’s shop.

“Don’t tell Constance,” she whispered. “Don’t say a word about .t to ’er when you go upstairs, but you’re to ’ave that room you ’ad before, with breakfast just the same, and I don’t want no pay for it; but for Gawd’s sake don’t tell Constance! She’d let in to me like a cat for givin’ that room away for nothing. She told me about yer—yer must ’a been cold. Thank Gawd, I’ve never slep’ in the streets meself. I said we’d ’ave to do somethin’ for yer, and she says—sharp at once, yer know, like she is, ‘Don’t you go and let ’im ’ave the room for nothin’,’ she says. Well, I ’adn’t thought of that, yer see; but that’s the only thing to do. It don’t cost me nothin’, not ’avin’ any lodger there now. ‘Don’t you go and let ’im ’ave the room for nothin’,’ she says—but that’s what I’m goin’ to do, and you let on you’re payin’ me later, see. I don’t ever want the money. Gawd knows I should be glad of anyone givin’ me a bed if I was down an’ out. But you let on, see—’cos she’s got ’er’ ead on ’er shoulders. She don’t give things away for nuthin’. She’s got more sense’n what I ’ave. Now up yer go and put yer bag in your old room. The bed’s not made up yet—but I’ll see to it at dinner time.”

It all took Dicky’s breath away. When at the top of the stairs he met Constance, he scarcely knew what to say.

“Well?” she said.

“I’ve got to put my bag in the room,” he replied.

“And tell me nothin’ about it—eh? She’s an easy one to manage, she is. Just tell ’er not to do a thin’, and I’m blowed if she can ’elp ’erself from doin’ it.”

She stopped suddenly. The look of laughter went out of her eyes. She put her hands on his shoulders.

“Dicky!” she whispered.

For an instant, as he paused, he thought of Dorothy—then thought no more. It was not only his breakfast he had needed. There flashed across his mind what Madame Marco had said. Madame Marco was right.

CHAPTER VI

FOR the first few days Dicky and Constance were as shy of each other as children to whom the world:s new and every emotion a magic revelation. By silent and a common consent they never alluded to their last parting. Almost it might never have happened. They might have been meeting for the first time, only that the spirit of the inevitable was conscious to both of them whenever they met or spoke. It was ’nevi-table that the day would come when this barrier of reserve would tumble before the importunate demands of nature. With trembling anticipation, thrilling at a look, both waited until that day should come, half afraid to face it, wholly joyed in their Hearts for the moment when it should be.

When, almost distantly, they bid each other goodnight, departing to their rooms, it was with pulses throbbing, to lie awake until the small hours brought them sleep. Through all her songs in the music-hall, Constance sang to her thoughts of him. In all his work at the night classes Dicky was conscious of her.

Both of them were living at the very jaws of a volcano; both of them could feel the burning earth beneath their feet. Yet the days sped on, and Dicky still trembled on the verge; only in moments dared Constance let her eyes meet with his.

“Don’t yer like ’im so much as yer used to?” asked Mrs. Baldwin one day.

And, being that soft-hearted fool of a mother to whom no daughter in her senses bares her heart, Constance merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, yes, I like ’im well enough.”

“ ’E’s quite a gentleman, yer know,” said Mrs. Baldwin, and, without appreciating why, Constance found that chilled her to the heart. The blood ran with a sudden shudder through her veins. She shivered.

“Got a chill?” asked her mother.

“Ghost walking over my grave,” she replied.

For the moment she tried bravely to face the thought that had chilled her; then, with the philosophy of one who needs no devil till the journey’s done, she put it out of her mind.

It was into the future, almost unconsciously, she had looked. And it is the future that every woman dreads. The accumulation of years, the years that will be good and the years that will be bad, they all lie there in wait for her. For the full bloom of her youth, that is her greatest achievement. When that is passed, the best is a graceful failure when the heart may still be young and the eyes deny it.

Yet it was not so far as this that Constance looked. In that moment she had seen an end of joy before those years had run, then thrust the ugly vision from her mind. It is given to every woman to prophesy out of her heart. Constance had been prophetic then.

That night she lay long awake, but in the morning the present was with her again. Once more she found herself on the very verge of that moment which she knew must come, and, as her eyes met Dicky’s across the breakfast table, involuntarily she drew a deeper breath.

It was three days later when Mrs. Baldwin announced her intention of going to a theatre again, of stopping out with her friends, maybe to supper, that the same thought rushed simultaneously to their minds. Dicky tried to smile, but it was Constance who succeeded. With a voice sounding unnatural to her, unnatural to the quick ears of Dicky, too, she teased her mother for her frivolity.

“Nice way to go on at your age,” said she. “Where are you goin’?”

“Over to the Elephant and Castle. I like them melodramas, yer know. I suppose they couldn’t ’appen really, hut they don’t waste no time talkin’. There’s always somethin’ to watch. Cheatin’ at cards an’ fightin’—that’s what I bice. Makes yer feel as if yer was seein’ somethin’ for yer money— don’t it?”

This was an evening when D,cky had no night class to attend. Without telling Constance, he went to the Holborn Music Hall, where she was then appearing, and, taking a seat in the gallery, waited for her entrance.

In the stifling atmosphere he sat with the perspiration glittering on his forehead, drenching his hands. He knew, as Constance knew as well, that that evening was the moment in their lives when chance and fate and all the destinies of lovers held their offerings in their hands.

As the curtain rang up on her number he swallowed nervously, leaning forward in his seat. Hers was not a popular turn. She came on early in the evening, but there was always that in her appearance which called for a flutter of applause. She had found the art of making herself attractive to these people. Her figure was worth all the trouble she took to dress it, the shoulders full, the ankles fine, the neck and head well set to make men pleased with her. Beauty might never be granted her, though her eyes had beauty in themselves. Big brown eyes she had, keen with pride, sparkling with courage. Her mouth was large, still there was beauty there, never the pursed prettiness, but a generosity that none could fail to see. It was her nose that cancelled beauty, yet made the charm and character of her face. With a sudden unexpected lift, it turned up to irresistible humour. You saw that there all beauty had been lost, yet never missed it for the character you found instead.

This was the impression which brought that willing loan of approval from everyone. Before she had sung a word they were prepared to like her, and when Dicky heard the clapping of hands about him, with hot cheeks he clapped his perspiring hands as well.

And then she sang—one of those songs which, like Monsieur Marco’s pictures, could have been written by the yard. Dicky felt his cheeks still hotter as he listened. He knew she was no good. Not all the passionate anticipation in his mind could deceive him as to that. Yet his heart went out to her, nevertheless, as she gave it forth. It was the pluck of it he felt, no other quality but that. Often she had told him how she knew she could not sing, and that every time she went on to the stage she more clearly realised her hopeless inefficiency. He knew she was trembling then as she sang, for, as she had once said to him, she always thought of the people in the audience who could probably sing much better than she and what damned cheek they must think it. Never receiving that full burst of applause, she always anticipated the sound of hissing when her song was done.

“I think if I was ’issed,” she had told him, “I could never show my face on the stage again.”

It was that he knew she was anticipating then. Wherefore, when the last chords were played, Dicky applauded with all his might. Indeed, it was forced from him by the realisation of her pluck, whereupon, caught by the spirit of his enthusiasm, there set up a clapping of hands all round him. The curtain went up again. She came on once more, and bowed. At last the conductor in the orchestra nodded his head, he tapped his baton on the rest. She had received an encore. She was to sing again.

A.s soon as her turn was over, Dicky left his seat in the gallery, coming downstairs out into the cooler air. He felt he could bear the stifling atmosphere no longer. At that height above the stage his senses seemed to be swimming, yet he knew it was not the height alone, but the thoughts of Constance, and the anticipation of that evening which was theirs.

No word had passed between them as to how they should spend it: together. They had been too shy even for that.

“Have you a night class this evening?”

This was the only question she had put to him, and, when he had shaken his head, both of them had understood without further need of speech.

Waiting upon the other side of the street, t was his intention when she came out to accompany her home. But those moments before she made her appearance were long in passing. His heart jumped up, quickening his breath at the sight of every figure emerging from the dark passage that led to the stage door, so that, when at last she did appear, he felt the nervous sickness of a lover who knows that the hour of his deliverance has come. For the moment he could not move to follow her, but stood there with leaping pulses, watching her as she hurried away in the direction of Drury Lane.

By the time he reached Great Queen Street she was but thirty yards ahead of him. He slackened his pace and let her enter the house, watched her close the door before he came up. Then, when it seemed he had waited a lifetime, he, too, went in, slowly mounting the stairs to the sitting room. He was even passing the door, was even continuing his way to that attic room above, when her voice called him.

“Are you going upstairs to work?” she asked.

“I was,” said he.

She looked at him timidly.

“Can I be any good? Do you want me to pose for anything?”

“No—I’m cutting a wood-block.”

He felt it was going all wrong; that, unless he said something, he would find himself making his way up to that attic room alone. He tried to think of something that might be said by him, but his mind refused to act. It was Constance who was equal to the occasion, the danger of which she, too, had realised herself.

“ ’Ave a bit of supper first,’’ she said. “I brought a bit of fried fish in.”

He watched her laying the table, as she had laid it that morning for his breakfast, his eyes taking in every perfection that he found in her.

“ ’Ad an encore to-night,” she said, as she sat down.

“I know,” said he. “I was there.”

“Where?”

Her cheeks were scarlet. She knew what he must have thought. She could face those people in the theatre, but not him.

“Up in the gallery.”

“Why, all the clappin’ came from there!”

“Did it?” said he.

“Did you do it?”

“No—we all did. Everybody liked it.”

It flew to her tongue to ask him did he, but she shut her lips in time. If he did not, it would be pain to him to say so. With an effort, she went on with her meal in silence.

“Why didn’t you wait to see it all?” she enquired presently. “There are some good turns later.”

“It was the heat up there in the gallery, I sup pose,” he replied. “I felt as if my head were going to burst.”

“Did you go away directly after then?”

“Yes.”

“Funny I didn’t see you cornin’ back.”

He caught the sound of that note of excitement in her voice. She had realised he had been there only to see her. The thought came to him then to put out his hand across the table, but she had risen and wias beginning to clear away the dishes.

Later when the supper was done and their cigarettes were lighted, he crossed deliberately to the lamp that stood on the modern mahogany sideboard, as deliberately turned it down, as deliberately put it out.

When he turned she was standing there, black against the firelight, and even at that distance he knew she was trembling as much as he.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. Her voice was on her breath. She had no power to produce the full note of it.

“Because the firelight’s nicer. Everything in that lamplight’s hard—it’s hard even to talk. Do you mind?”

She shook her head, pulled an armchair out by the fireside, and looked to him to take it.

“You,” said he.

Her head gave him the negative again. Before he could insist, she had dropped to the floor and was settling her feet like a tailor’s, crossed before her.

For a long while they were silent. In such a light, at such a moment, speech is indeed a superfluous thing. The firelight danced on their faces; on hers, watching the bubbling gases that hissed and flamed and blew out their thin streams of smoke; on his, that gazed in passionate contemplation of her. There was no need for her to look up. She knew he was watching her and left it to chance who should speak first or what should be said. Those were moments of absolute contentment. She was sure of him then. It needed only the waiting, and such was the joy of that delay she would not have lost it or altered one instant of it then.

Even at last, when Dicky did speak, she never turned her head, but still looked on into the heat of the glowing embers, knowing that this was the moment of her heart and soul’s achievement, that all the past and all the future were as one in her then.

“Do you know,” she said, “that after that time— when I went down to Greenwich, after we’d said good-bye—do you know that I suffered terribly with remorse?”

“I knew you would,” she replied.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

He glanced at her face, still gazing at the fire.

“When I went home that time,” he continued presently, “I—I told Dorothy—not who it was, but I told her.”

Now she looked up at him.

“Before she’d told yer about the other man?”

“Yes.”

He might have seen her eyes glitter “You’re not a funk—are yer?”

“I don’t know,” said he. “I couldn’t have let her think—that there’d been nothing like that.”

“What did she say?”

“That she’d guessed it all along—that she’d known when I came to London that it would happen.”

Constance looked up quickly into his eyes.

“Oh—she’d guessed it—’ad she? What ’ad she got to guess by? Eh? How did she know yer so well as to guess that?”

Dicky looked back straightly at her, believing then that he might lose her. There was no need to answer her question. He realised she knew without h.s answering.

“Now—do you hate me, too?” he said at last.

She rose from her tailor’s posture, crawled across the floor to his side, leaning her elbows on his knees and staring up close into his face.

“I wouldn’t care what you did,” she whispered. “I don’t believe yer could do anythin’ that wasn’t straight. And, thank God, I don’t believe yer could do anythin’ as wasn’t ‘uman. She’d known that about me all the time, ’ad she? Well—I’d known that all the time about ’er. Women know about women from one end of the world to the other. They don’t want to meet each other. It’s quite enough to meet the man as some of ’em ’as been in love with.”

She lifted her elbows and her arms crept round his neck.

“’Ate yer?” she whispered. “My Gawd! I shouldn’t ’ave thought it was possible to love a man like I love you. You’re such a kid and such a man, and you’re cleverer than anybody I’ve ever met in all my life—I know I don’t know what I’m saying— but-”

And so she murmured on, almost with incoherence, in the overwhelming burden of her love. She had no words to speak it all, just looks and eager gestures, broken phrases and caresses of her hands.

And Dicky, who had thought he had known what love could be, was bewildered, overcome. The halting words broke on his ears, the caressing hands touched his eyes, and he could not answer, had no power to bid her stay. If this was the love a woman could give, he wondered had Dorothy ever loved him at all.

“Are yer ever goin’ to feel remorse now?” she whispered.

\

It was then amazement left him. He took her madly in his arms. It was not only she who could love; it was not she alone whose hands could caress, whose lips could kiss. Now his hands wildly were stroking her eyes, her cheeks, her hair. He held her and she was his. He let her go, then caught her to him again. No moment was there for her to breathe. He crushed the breath from her and heard the broken sobs by which she tried in vain to regain it.

“My little child,” he muttered, “my little wife!”

He knew what he had said. With full intention he had meant to say it; yet at the sound of the word involuntarily his arms relaxed their hold. In that instant she was free of him and, with panting breath, was standing there staring with wonder into his face.

“Dicky!” she whispered.

“I meant it,” said he quickly. . “I meant it then and I mean it now. Why? Why do you look like that?”

She shook her head and slowly she dropped down again to her posture on the floor.

The strain had snapped. He had snapped it— snapped it with the weight of something more wonderful than she had ever dreamed. For a moment he stayed where she had left him, then, realising by instinct part of all that was passing in her mind, he knelt down on the floor beside her.

“I mean it,” he whispered again. “Why do you think I don’t? My God! I never meant anything more in my life. We’re going to be married—at once ‘f we can.”

She gave no answer, but looked up to his eyes. For a moment he saw in hers that gratitude which only women know the meaning of; then tears flooded it out. He found her crying and sobbing in his arms.

CHAPTER VII

DICKY had placed a temptation before the mind of Constance which was the more subtle and the more poignant because of ‘ts absolute surprise. This talk of marriage she never for one moment had expected. It had never entered her thoughts. He was quite a gentleman, Mrs. Baldwin had said it; but she had known it from the first. The highest summit of her hope when he had left the oil shop in Drury Lane was that one day he would return, if only for so brief a time as that which they had enjoyed together.

Even when she had learnt from him of Dorothy, had realised that then no rival stood upon her path, her’ greatest ambition was that the months might slip by into a year or more, before the inevitable future took him from her.

Then, out of the radiant blue had come this bolt from heaven. He had asked her to marry him, and almost all that night she lay awake, never once closing her eyes, but counting in the fever of her mind the rights that were hers to consent, then weighing them involuntarily against obstacles her conscience thrust before her eyes.

At three o’clock in the morning, when the chime of the Law Courts clock had just dimly reached her ears and then was drowned by all the other bells of Covent Garden, she crept out of bed to light her candles. Placing them on the dressing-table, she stood before the mirror, appealing to her beauty for the answer she most yearned to give.

Her eyes looked tired, but that was want of sleep. In the morning they would be bright again. But when they were often tired and the years had gathered in them, would he be proud of her then? What help would she be to him? There were painters she had heard spoken of almost with reverence, surely with respect. How would she seem as a wife of such a one? Through the t iln gossamer of her dainty night dress she could see the dim line of her figure. That would be a help to him. She could sit for his pictures. He could not afford a model now. When she thought of any other woman taking her place in that respect she knew that she would be at his service at all times. He was poor, too, and she was making money. There she could help again. But that help could be given without marriage. All the things she could possibly do for him, they could all be given without that.

Yet there was herself to consider. But when she forced her mind to rise in her own defence, there came in overpowering realisation the knowledge of her own inefficiency. He had not even said he liked her singing. She felt no interest in it herself. It was a means of making money, relieving her of dependence upon her mother; but that was all. There was no future for her. She had fine eyes, she knew that, a figure, too, and a mouth that brought men to her. But what would they be in a few years when he had conquered his world and was great, as she knew he would be, amongst men?

Clasping her hands about her face, she cried out in the misery of her doubt. Why had he ever spoken of,t? Why had he not left things just as they were, instead of torturing her with this temptation? Why had that word ever left his lips? How infinitely simple it would have been without it. And yet, because of it, she appreciated her love of him all the more.

There was no one she could ask; no one whose advice would aid her to decision. She knew well what her mother would say and, talking all this time as she was to herself, she imitated her mother’s voice aloud.

“Well, my dear, if he’s in love with you—what I mean it’s ’is lookout—isn’t it? ’Course, I knew ’e was a nice boy, I’ve always said ’e was a gentleman, and it isn’t as if you’d dragged ’im into it. Besides, marriage is always better than the other thing— ain’t it? But you must please yerself. I’m not the match-makin’ sort.”

And then she laughed at the utter futility of it, for that, indeed, was what her mother would have said. But whom could she ask? Not Dicky himself. He would not listen to her for a moment He was in love with her,—“Thank God for that!” she muttered,—and in the impetuous impulse of his nature would hear no word of doubt, or contemplate the faintest deprecation of her perfections.

Was there no one, beknown to him or her, who could in such a pass afford her counsel? She thought of his father, then laughed the thought away. A man who could turn his son out of the house would never appreciate a situation such as this. His sister? With the gentle up-bringing she knew Anne must have had, no sympathy in the world could make her understand. No, a woman was not the person. Instinctively she knew that a woman in this matter would take her part. Such a woman as Anne would never consider any possibility but their marriage.

It must be a man, and a man who knew Dicky, too, who had those interests at heart which, against all thought of herself, she realised must be considered. And as she did this battle in her mind, there came to her the remembrance of Mr. Nibbs. Dicky had told her a great deal about him, about the little print-seller’s interest in his work, of the evenings in Greenwich they had spent together.

He was the man! With sudden conviction she delicately blew out the candles, creeping back to her bed, whispering again and again to herself, “Why did he ask me, oh, why did he ask me?” until she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII

THE next morning Constance stayed late in bed to avoid their meeting at breakfast and when she had made sure from the sound of hammering that Dicky was working on his woodblock in the attic room dressed quickly and went out.

As she passed through the shop Mrs. Baldwin called to her from her desk behind the boxes of scented soaps.

“Where are you off to ii that get-up?” she enquired. “Got yer best clothes on, ’aven’t yer?”

“An’ what’s that matter?” demanded Constance. “P’r’aps I’m gcin’ to see an agent, yer never know.” Mrs. Baldwin humbly returned to the entries in her ledger. She never asked her daughter more than one question when she needed information. One question was sufficient, to which she either received the information for which she sought, or was checked, as now, when it was plain to be seen that all further enquiry was useless.

“Anythin’ else you want to know?” asked Constance at the door. She knew she was being aggressive but could not help herself. Her mother’s notice of her best clothes had brought to her conscious mind the reason she had put them on. In this going to see Mr. Nibbs, she was putting much to the hazard, and human nature would have been wanting in her had she not taken every available advantage.

Not daring to risk a meeting with Dicky again until this mission was fulfilled, she had determined that Mr. Nibbs should see her at her best and, in the anticipation of their interview, her mind was ready for aggression.

“Anythin’ else you want to know?” she had asked, and the line of her upper lip was not so full then as Nature had designed it.

Her mother looked up, caught that expression, and lost all desire to be told anything. She shook her head, a moment later peering round the pile of soap boxes to make sure her daughter had gone.

“She ’as got a temper, that girl,” she muttered to herself, as she added up a column of farthings. “Never shows it, I will say, no more than that; but I wouldn’t like to be the one to upset ’er.” Having delivered herself of which reflections aloud, Mrs. Baldwin found she must add up her line of farthings again.

It was a habit in the Baldwin family that the women talked to themselves and talked aloud when they were alone. By some subconscious process of the mind (for they were never aware of the habit) they modulated the sound of their voices in accordance with the occasion. In the quietness of the shop, for instance, when Mrs. Baldwin knew she was alone, her voice rose up to the pitch of ordinary conversation, while Constance, hurrying through the streets, reduced her voice to an inaudible murmur.

“You’re a little fool, aren’t you?” she muttered, as she crossed the broad bridge where the sea-gulls were gathering from a storm at sea. “Only for ’is sayin’ that, you’d never ’ave been upset at all. Why don’t yer put it out of yer ’ead and ’ave done with it straight away? Yer can’t keep ’imno better if yer are married to ’im. Marryin’ ’im won’t stop ’im from bein’ successful, and then it’ll only be a trouble for ’im to get rid of yer.”

Partly in her own defence, she divined that it would be a trouble anyway. Dicky, she believed, was not the man to treat a woman ill. Out of his own mind, when he knew she was his without asking, he had proposed marriage to her. He would always find;t difficult to put her away whatever their relationship might be.

But why was she worrying herself like this? Why did she not refuse to marry him straight away, letting it all take the course that she had seen for it, before he ever mentioned that binding word?

It would be well-nigh impossible to say what marriage means to a woman when she loves. For the greater her love, the more possible it is for her to understand that no law but love is binding. Yet it is only the decadent woman who, falling by ill-for- tune upon an exaggerated opinion of her powers of intelligence, it is only she who would choose a life of freedom. Nature does not admit of many of these, and Constance certainly was not one of them.

In those quieter depths of her heart where the surface of belief remains unruffled, she knew that she would sooner be married than not. Yet beside that belief and just as sure as it, was the conviction that it was not in honest justice to him.

So she wrestled in her heart until the door of the little print-seller’s shop was reached and she found herself face to face with the round-faced little man whose eyes looked up through the old horn spectacles, twinkling with pleasure at the sight of her.

“Yes, miss?” he said.

She coughed, nervously, but came quickly and bravely to her point.

“You’ve gut a picture in the window,” she replied, “by Mr. Furlong.” lie nodded. Emily’s eyes appeared above her novelette.

s

“What, what s it worth—I mean, is it very good?”

“I’ll show it to yer,” said he.

She held out her hand and detained him.

“No, I’ve seen it outside. What I want to know is, is it very good?”

“Don’t you think it is, miss?”

“Yes, I do; but then I don’t know.”

It was going to be harder than she had imagined. Men are never quick to know that a woman is not saying all she means.

“Do you want to buy it?” he enquired.

“No, I’m sorry, I couldn’t afford two pounds ten.”

“It’s worth it,” declared Mr. Nibbs; “I sold one a week or two ago.”

“Four weeks,” said Emily from her corner.

“Four weeks,” repeated Mr. Nibbs.

“ ’Ave yer got any others?” Constance asked.

“Yes, a coloured wood-block, the first one ’e ever did—the first I ever see, too.” He brought it out from the window. “What d’yer think of that? That sort of way of doin’ ’em, that’s ’is own idea. I was all against it at first, but ’e stuck to it—would ’ave it ’is own way. And he’ll make his name with them things one of these days.”

“ ’Ow much is this?”

“Ain’t for sale, miss I put it in the window, but it ain’t for sale. Four people ’ave asked me that very same question, but it ain’t for sale. That’s the first Furlong coloured wood-block—sounds all right, that, don’t it?”

He had said this to each of the four people who had made similar enquiries about it, and he knew they had all been impressed, especially the ones making their way over the bridge toward the Strand. It impressed Constance as she heard it.

The words fell on her ears and sank dully to her heart.

“Yer think he’s goin’ to be a great man, then?” she asked.

“Don’t think it,” said Mr. Nibbs. He suddenly leant across the counter. “Look ’ere,” he said, n a lower tone, “I’ll tell yer somethin’ about ’im.” And forthwith, unable to keep it to himself, he told of Dicky’s first visit to his shop, of how he had recognised the genius in him. had known it from the moment he entered the door.

“You didn’t know it till ’e said ’e wouldn’t sell the picture,” said Emily.

“Well, no, p’raps I didn’t,” assented Mr. Nibbs, “but I’ve seen it before anyone else. They won’t look at ’is pictures in Bond Street, and ’e’s afraid to go into the best dealers there. But one of these days I’m goin’ to send ’im along. I don’t want to make money out of ’im. Why, if I liked to offer ’im two ’undred a year, like some of ’em do, ’e’d let me ’ave all ’is work for three years at least and I’d ’ave more than six ’undred pounds’ worth at the end of it. I bet a quid I would.”

He could not have afforded two hundred pounds a year, so it did not matter to Emily, who was not concerned in any way, that he would ever be likely to offer it. But at the same time he knew it was a generous sentiment, and his face smiled up at her, full of good-nature, in expectation of her approval.

However, Constance had been listening, not to his sentiments, but to the sentence passed upon her own conscience. She knew now. The choice was very plain. And yet it would have been easier to receive a definite answer to a definite question. Her eyes narrowed in speculation as she looked at Mr. Nihbs, wondering how great would be his astonishment were she to ask him if it would be right for Dicky to marry her.

That question, however, she could not bring herself to put, and so, still with some faint degrees of hope, she struggled on to learn her own confusion.

“Does every painter turn out to be what—what you think ’e’s goin’ to be?” she asked presently.

The little print-seller shook his head, sorrowfully, as though with great experience.

“One in a thousand,” he replied. “There’s Thomas Parker—I used to sell a lot of ’is things.”

“You sell a lot of ’em now,” Emily remarked.

“I sell a lot of ’em now,” he repeated; “but ’e ain’t what ’e used to be. ’E’s goin’ off. Yer can’t paint pictures of Venice, yer know, with the smell of a fried fish shop cornin’ through yer windows in Lambeth. Mr. Furlong, ’e said to me one day, ‘That picture smells of fried fish,’ ’e said. Down on each other these artists are, yer know. Well, Parker’s no friend of ’is—’e don’t know ’im or I’ve no doubt ’e wouldn’t ’ave spoken like that. But they can’t ’elp it. If a thing’s bad, they’ve got nothin’ to say for it. Why, ’e came in ‘ere one day—you remember Emily—’e was dancing about, as excited and jolly as ’e could be. ‘I’m awfully bucked,’ ’e said. ‘I’ve just been to the National Gallery and Constable’s not really a bit of good!’ ”

The little man put his hands under the bib of his apron, he threw out his stomach and he laughed aloud.

“Awfully bucked, yer know! Constable’s not really a bit of good! Did yer ever hear anythin’ like the cheek of it? Constable an R. A., mind yer, ’oo was a friend of the Earl of Dysart, a regular top-notcher—and ’e thinks ’e’s not a bit of good and is awfully bucked about it. And I shouldn’t wonder if ’e wasn’t right, either. Mr. Ruskin didn’t think so much of him, and Mr. Ruskin discovered Turner, yer know, so they say.”

“Who did this man Constable marry?” asked Constance. Upon this question, she hung all her hopes, waiting with sickness and joy to hear.

Mr. Nibbs turned to Emily, deep in her hook.

“Who did Constable marry?” he asked.

She looked up with a jerk.

“Constable who?” she asked with annoyance.

“Not Constable anybody — Constable the painter.”

“I dunno,” said she, and was buried aga.in.

Taking no more notice of her, Mr. Nibbs went to a shelf of second-hand books. An encyclopedia was there. He brought it down.

“ ’Ere we are,” said he—“Constable—Con—Con —stable—stable—John Constable, R. A. Son of a miller, born nth of June, 1776, here we are—married Mary Bicknell, daughter of the solicitor to the Admiralty and got £20,000 with ’er. A nice little, fat sum that, wasn’t it?” He looked up witfi a smile, but in a moment the smile had gone. Her face was set and hard, yet her eyes were glittering. If Mr. Nibbs had known who she was, he might have believed there were tears there. As things were, he just realised that something had happened and he put the book away.

This was fantastic, it was prophetic. The son of a miller, as Dicky was as well, and had married a gentleman’s daughter with twenty thousand pounds! That was her answer. She swallowed bravely, taking it with all the courage you might have seen in her eyes, you might have found in her mouth.

“Well, thank you very much for telling me,” said she. “I’m afraid I’ve taken up a lot of your time.” As she walked quickly to the door, she heard him declaring gallantly what a pleasure il had been and that if he could have sold her the picture for less he would, but that he had given two pounds for it himself—and then she was alone in the street.

Not until she had walked the Bridge was she conscious of any definite thought, and then suddenly it occurred to her how surely Mr. Nibbs would tell Dicky of her questions. She hurried back. The door was ajar. The pneumatic contrivance was not in working order, and as she entered, timidly, in fear of what she had to say, she heard Emily’s voice, raised in argumentative declaration.

“Lots of girls is pretty,” she was saying, “but that don’t prevent ’em from bein’ common. Look at the way she talked. Fine feathers, I know that! But pluck ’em! Then you’ll see what’s underneath.”

For one instant Constance hesitated. At last she walked in.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, and she spoke with a voice that was foreign to her—not an aitch was dropped.

Mr. Nibbs hurried forward.

“I know Mr. Furlong,” she continued, “and I must ask you most—most-”

“Earnestly?” suggested Mr. Nibbs.

“Earnestly,” said she, “to say nothing about my having been here. I have my reasons, and they’re good ones. I shall hear from him if you tell him, and it’ll only mean—unhappiness.”

“I won’t tell,” said Mr. Nibbs, and she knew he meant it.

When she had gone again, he turned and looked at Emily.

“Beats yer old novelette,” said he.

“Beats me” said Emily.

CHAPTER IX

FOR the rest of that day Constance avoided the oil shop, took her lunch in an obscure restaurant alone, went down to the neighbourhood of St. Paul’s where a friend of hers was in charge of a little tobacco shop, and there, behind the counter, she sat all the afternoon. They talked of hats and dresses, of things that had been said to them, of things they had replied. Miss Shadbolt had a number of admirers constantly in attendance upon her; was one of those girls who involuntarily collects a retinue of young men and, harmlessly enough, is always finding herself in awkward predicaments. The conversation never flagged for one moment when once she embarked upon her confidences. All these young men, in the time since last she and Constance had met, had said a multitude of things that were worth repeating. Her replies were of equal Importance. They had tea together behind the counter, Constance half-hidden from the gaze of the customers who came in, where, till long after tea was over, the stories were told, with little nods of the head, expressive gestures and exclamations of annoyance whenever a customer interrupted.

Yet all this time Constance said nothing of Dicky. Many times her inclinations prompted her to seek her friend’s advice, but now it appeared to be boastfulness and then she knew the advice was such that she would never follow it. In the end she kept her own counsel and was silent.

Nor was this silence for want of prompting. When Miss Shadbolt had exhausted her confidences, had returned from a customer at the counter, seated herself with a deep sigh and regarded Constance’s new coat and skirt and all the details of price and material which had been told her long ago, she said:

“How about you, my dear?”

From one woman to another, when they two have not met for some considerable time, this question has but one meaning. It is just possible for you to assume ignorance of that meaning, but not when the question is prefaced by a glance from your hat to your coat, your coat to your skirt, and from thence to the shoes upon your feet. Constance knew there was no avoiding it, and smiled.

“Nothing about me,” said she.

“Oh, go on!” said Miss Shadbolt, for women know when a coat and skirt are irresistible. “I’ve told you.”

“I’d tell you if there was anything,” Constance replied. “The music ’all ain’t such a lively place as you’d think. Fellers send round a note now and again, but it ain’t my way to pick up with anyone I don’t know nothin’ about.”

“Why are yer wearing those things to-day then?” “Oh, nothin’—been to an agent’s, that’s all.” Miss Shadbolt looked disappointed. She knew that there must be something. Life from her point of view was at a standstill when nothing of this nature was afoot, and, seeing that she was not to be told what that something was, it was not merely her imagination that urged her to suppose it was quite a serious matter. The mere fact of her not being told proved how serious it must be.

“You ain’t goin’ to be married, are yer?” she asked, after a long pause, and, from the serious way in which Constance shook her head, she knew her assumptions were correct.

In the hour of freedom that she was given between six and seven they dined together at Constance’s expense, when, all through the meal, she endeavoured in a thousand cunning ways to steal the secret away.

With a weary little laugh Constance turned to her at last.

“I’m not goin’ to tell you, my dear,” said she. “There’s nothin’ to tell—just one of those things you’ve got to swallow and look pleasant over. I haven’t swallowed it yet, that’s all.”

It was Dicky’s evening at the night class. She counted upon returning from the music hall and disappearing to her bedroom long before he returned. One more night to herself, talking herself to sleep, and she knew she would be able to accept the inevitable, be able, as she had told Miss Shadbolt, to swallow it and look pleasant. Other girls she had known, even Miss Shadbolt herself, had been friendly with men who for want of a better name she thought of as gentlemen. But none of them had ever proposed marriage. There was one who had taken her friend out to dinner, but never to restaurants where he was likely to meet his own acquaintances. He had given her presents, had paid her a thousand little attentions, and Miss Shadbolt had talked by the hour about him, wondering ‘.f he were going to propose. He never had. The little affair had drifted away into nothingness. He had lost interest; had just fallen out of her existence. A brooch, a bangle, a little hand-bag, were all the things that remained to show his passage across her path. And these were the men whom Constance thought of now.

She saw Dicky s future far plainer than he saw it himself, far plainer even than it glowed in the ambitious vision of Mr. Nibbs. A day would come, she could see it vividly in her mind, when her accident of birth would rise between them like a phoenix out of the flame of their passion, and, impulsive in that passion though she was, there was a mental balance in her equipment which no desire or emotion could destroy.

That day she had needed to herself, away from Dicky, away from all her surroundings, in order to bring her mind to the belief that she did not even wish to marry him. It was a stern struggle, but in the end she won.

“You ’adn’t thought of marryin’ ’im,” she said aloud in her dressing-room of the theatre. “It wasn’t what you wanted at all. I’ll stick to yer right enough as long as ’e wants yer, and you’ll know quick enough when ’e don’t.”

In all these solitary conversations her gestures were emphatic; neither did she make effort at refinement in her voice. It was the real woman speaking then. With bitter energy she daubed the grease paint on her face as she talked; but even before she was made up ready for the stage her mood had quieted, aggression against fate had fallen and was still. Her battle was won.

“I’ve been goin’ on,” said she, “as if I was goin’ to lose ’im. But my lord! we’re goin’ to be as ’appy as a pair o’ kids. ’T isn’t as if I was one of those women in society as ’ave to go into a market and be bought. I suppose marriage is all right for them. Once they’re spliced, they’re spliced, and if they don’t like it they lump it. But I wouldn’t lump it with any man, not if I was married sixty times over. Marriage ain’t no real good to a girl like me, yer know, it ain’t, and that’s a fact. A bit o’ gold wouldn’t tie me up—not if I wanted to be off. If you was to ask me,” she said, as she stood up, regarding her face in the mirror for the last time, “if you was to ask me, I should say you’d be a fool to marry ’im—a kid like that, just twenty. ’E thinks ’e knows ’is own mind. No—you’re well out of it, my dear. Come on—on yer go. Get onto the stag: and do your bit. You’re well out of it.”

At last, with a cheerful smile at her reflection, she went out of the room. She had won. She had deceived herself. With a stern resolve never to look back to those moments when the thought of marrying Dicky had so thrilled all her thoughts, she came onto the stage and sang with the joy of life awake in her once more.

As she changed again in the dressing-room, where another girl was getting ready for a later turn, she determined in silence then that she would go up to the Polytechnic schools and meet Dicky as he came out.

“What sort of a ’ouse is it?” enquired her companion.

Constance shrugged her shoulders. She had hardly noticed the audience to whom she had sung “If it’s like that,” said the girl, “I shall ’ave a drop o’ port.” She went to the door and called for her dresser. “I’ve got the deuce of a cold on me.” She sang a few notes with her hand laid on her chest. “Thick, ain’t it! An’ I’ve got a boy in front to-night. Always the way, ain’t t? Get me a glass o’ port, Mrs. Evans—that’s the third this evenin’. I’m all right, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you’re all right,” said Constance. “It ain’t so easy to get tight with a cold on yer.”

She came quickly up the passageway from the stage door, settling her hat, putting the finishing touches to her hair as she walked. In Drury Lane a figure came out of the darkness and joined her. It was Dicky.

“Thought you were at the Poly!” said she; but her surprise at finding him there was as nothing to the delight of seeing him by her side.

“I couldn’t go there to-night,” he replied; “I couldn’t have done a stroke. Where have you been all day? Mrs. Baldwin said you went out this morning after breakfast. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. She said you might have gone to your agents. I went there— they hadn’t seen you. I’ve been all over the place. What’s happened? After last right—I thought-”

She clutched his arm and she laughed aloud at the joy of being missed.

“I ’aven’t been nowhere,” said she; “anywhere, I mean. Just been thinking about last night, that’s all.”

“Well—well?”

He bent down, looking beneath her hat into her face.

“I haven’t known what to think,” he went on. “You wouldn’t say anything last night. We are going to be married, aren’t we?” He squeezed the arm he held. He meant it. The night had not changed him.

“Let’s wait till we get inside,” said she.

“But your mother’s there.”

“Well, then, we’ll sit i the shop.”

For the rest of his life the odour of paraffin was a memory to Dicky. Gently they opened the door and softly closed it behind them. A hanging lamp with a bright tin reflector was burning dimly in a corner of the shop. Oil in an oil shop is cheaper than gas. For a moment or two they stood and listened. Mrs. Baldwin was moving about in the room above. Until she had seated herself and all was still, neither of them moved. When she heard the creaking springs of the old armchair upstairs, Constance put out her hand and at once it was in his.

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “you’re going to say yes.”

She shook her head. There was a wooden case of candles in a corner of the shop, beside it was a heap of wood bundles stacked for sale; she led him there and sat down. He stood waiting beside her.

“Listen,” she said softly, “it was all a mistake last night. I never meant marryin’. I’m not the sort as ought to marry. What ’ud you do if I got a fancy in me ‘ead for someone else, or supposin’ you did—what ’ud we do then? No, listen, I’m goin’ to say it all—just what I’ve been thinkin’ about to-day. We’re kids, both of us. Why, I’m older than you. ’Ow do we know what ain’t goin’ to ‘appen to us in a couple of years or so? It’s no good your sayln’ nothin’—anything—I haven’t finished. You’ve got to be sensible.” He was listening, like a child. “If you think it’s wrong for us two to be together, well, you’d better go away, see what I mean—it wouldn’t be no good your stoppin’ ’ere—because—would it? We’re too fond of each other for that. Would you sooner go?”

She hung her breath in her throat as she waited for his answer, guessing how all the desire in him was to say then that he would go. If she were firm in her determination, as indeed it seemed to him she was, then he knew it was his duty to be gone and expedient that that going should be soon. But he could see life without her then as vividly as he beheld her by his side, and life without her seemed the more impossible of the two. What would his father say? What did that really matter? It was what he must say of himself; nothing.but condemnation, it is true, yet there were things in life that no condemnation could depreciate.

Had there been no folly between them before, doubtless he might have turned upon his heel and there would she have been at his shoulder to hold him back at any cost. It is one or the other who is firm ‘n this world, seldom both. Nature sets the weak against the strong, lest the battle be neither won nor lost.

And all this while she waited for his reply, clasping and unclasping her hands, watching his face, silent with fear lest, if he so chose, then she would let him go.

“What are yer thinkin’, Dicky?” she asked at last, when patience could bear no more.

He made up his mind what to say. “I’m thinking”—he determined that this should be his answer —“I’m thinking that in fairness to you I ought to go.” He was trembling as he listened to his voice saying the first two words. “I’m thinking,” said he, “what it ’ud all be like without you.”

Sweat of shame broke out on his forehead. He had not said it. What he had said was a different thing indeed. How had he come to say it? It might- almost have been someone else who had spoken. Those were not the words he had intended. Yet he was secretly glad when he saw the effect they had upon her. She caught hold of his hot hand— pressed her lips to it. That oil shop with its dim light and its pungent odours was the most wonderful place in the world. Each kiss upon his fingers lit it up With a burst of light; nothing was real about him, nothing was itself.

“You’d miss me?” she whispered.

Something or someone was prompting him. He hear himself say, “Yes.”

“Frightfully?”

“Frightfully.”

She dragged him down to her side and three bundles of wood rolled down from the heap onto the floor. The sound of them reached their ears but brought no message to the brain.

“Then you’re not goin’?” she murmured.

She felt him tremble in her hands. He could give no other reply. His head was hidden on her lap. So there she sat, her hand stroking his hair, knowing her sacrifice was made, glad for his sake that he still was free, glad for her own that he was not wholly lost to her. There were the years before them, and who could ever know what the years might bring?

The opening of the door behind them—the door that led into the house—brought Dicky stumbling to his feet. A light appeared, and in trembling tones they heard the sound of Mrs. Baldwin’s voice.

“Whoever’s in there,” she called out in a high key, “had better go out the way they come. I’ve got a p’lice whistler on me ’and, and I’m goin’ to blow it.”

Only Constance laughed. The smile that came to Dicky’s lips died away.

“Don’t be a fat-head, mother,” she said. “It’s only us.”

A deep sigh preceded the enquiry to know what they were doing.

“Just talking,” said Constance. “We’re cornin’ up now. Keep the light.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Baldwin, as Dicky passed her. When it came to her daughter, she put an arm on her shoulder and held her back.

“What is it?” said Constance.

The good lady waited till Dicky was out of hearing.

“I’m so glad, my dear,” she whispered, “though you don’t know what a fright yer gave me.”

“You’re a silly old fool, mother,” said Constance gently. Then she took the wrinkled cheeks in her hands and kissed her, and all the way, as she followed her daughter upstairs, Mrs. Baldwin continued to declare her pleasure in every different way she could think of expressing it.

CHAPTER X

WHEN Mrs. Baldwin heard from Constance that she and Dicky were not going to get married, the weight of a feather, so she declared, could have knocked her down. Yet, deeply within her, she was not really so surprised as all that.

The so-called moral attitude of a third generation of Londoners is not what you would expect to find in a thirtieth generation of country folk. That so-called moral attitude is often a matter of expediency where it is not one of tradition, and, while amongst Londoners there is little or no tradition at all, expediency, too, is a negligible quantity. Amongst the Bohemian classes, in that class, too, to which Mrs. Baldwin belonged, marriage may sometimes be a convenience; it is not often a state of blessedness. Tradition does not demand it, and few if any unpleasant consequences arise from the want of its observance. For, if marriage is anything, it is a social law, preserving unity and order amongst those who find these qualities of service in the daily round. To Mrs. Baldwin and her like marriage is a financial convenience often doubtless illumined with affection, but beyond that has little or nothing to recommend it. The difficulty of divorce for the poor make of it a condition that has many drawbacks whilst the advantages are few.

She was not shocked when she heard it. Her allusion to the weight of a feather was only her way of expressing the setting-back to her expectations. She had believed that all gentlemen proposed marriage, even if they did not keep faith with their propositions.

“Well, I did think ’e’d ’ave asked yer to marry ’im,” she said, “ ’cos I suppose he’ll come into a bit of somethin’ some day.”

Constance rose hotly and at once in Dicky’s defence.

“He did ask me,” she declared, “and I refused.”

“Did ask yer? Well, it isn’t me that’s a fathead.”

She looked at her daughter in bewilderment, knowing for certain then how little she understood her.

“What did you do that for?” she enquired. “Don’t you think ’e’s good enough for yer? You’re a queer sort, I must say. What’s the good of your goin’ on the stage, if yer don’t make use of it like the rest of ’em does. You’ve lost a chance, you ’ave. I don’t say ’e’s much of a catch—not a penny to bless ’imself with—but ’e’s a nice boy, and ’e’s a gentleman, and as T say p’raps ’e’ll come into a bit of somethin’ some Jay, if ’e don’t make nothin’ oat of ’is paintin’. What are yer goin’ to do then? Yer weren’t sittin’ down there cuddlin’ on a pile of firewood for nothin’. What are yer goin’ to do?” “We ’aven’t decided yet,” said Constance “No, but you know what you’re goin’ to do. You can’t kid me. I won’t ’ave yer stayin’ on ’ere.” “We’re not goin’ to. I’m makin’ two qu‘d a week now. We’re goin’ to get a little place somewhere.”

“And live on your money?”

“What we make between us. He gets two pounds for a picture when ’e sells one.”

For a moment or two Mrs. Baldwin thought it over and, when she came to the realisation that she was to be left alone, her lower lip began to tremble. Seeing her feeling for the corner of her apron, Constance put a hand on her shoulder.

“There’s no good blubbin’, mother,” she sa:d gently. “It can’t be helped. It’s no good your pretendin’ that you’ve never ’eard of people livin’ together before, because you ’ave. We shall say we’re married—no one’ll know. I’m fond of ’im and ’e’s fond of me, but I’m blowed if I’m goin’ to marry ’im. One of these day ’e’ll marry a lady that’s fit for ’im and I ’ope it won’t be for a ’ell of a time yet.”

“Yes, and what’s to become of me?” whimpered Mrs. Baldwin. “I don’t want to be ‘ere all alone. I like young people about me.”

Constance assured her that they would not go far.

“There are rooms to let in Great Queen Street.” said she. “We’ll get a place there and you can come round of an evening.”

The sudden thought of those evenings, of their life together for as long as it would last, caught hold upon her imagination. She took her mother in her arms and hugged her.

“Mary Pannell was ’appy enough with ’er feller when she went and lived with ’im I” she exclaimed. “Nobody thought none the worse of ’er. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m fond of ’im—I’d do anythin’ in the world to keep ’im.”

Mrs. Baldwin looked at her tearfully.

“I suppose it’s all right,” said she. “You won’t be the first and you won’t be the last. But it never turns out well on the stage—I will say that. It never turns out well on the stage, not in those plays at the Elephant and Castle.”

On the top floor of number twelve Great Queen Street there were two rooms with sloping ceilings to be let. A skylight in one of them made certain of the matter. Constance put bn her oldest dress and went to see the landlord, who lived next door. She knew her way in a matter of business, said nothing about her work on the stage where fabulous sal aries are talked about and, as Mrs. Furlong, secured the rooms tor five shillings a week.

A water-tap on the stairs, midway between first and second floor, was common to the entire household. The ground floor was occupied by a tobacconist, but there was a separate entrance to the house. This in Great Queen Street is impressive. Painting and papering was done by the landlord, brown paper on the walls of the living-room—this was Dicky’s taste. In the bedroom Constance petitioned for bunches of roses on a cream ground, and was allowed to be perfectly right. Of her own accord, she had an electric bell fitted which rang in their room from the hall door in the street below. On Sundays this was a temptation to all little boys, but it placed them superior to everyone else in the house and was truly a convenience.

It has been said elsewhere that Mrs. Baldwin was quick to accept the inevitable. No sooner were the rooms in Great Queen Street taken than she entered with interest into the excitement of furnishing. There were things in the oil-shop she declared she could quite easily do without. The premises of a furnishing company were visited by Dicky and Constance and Mrs. Baldwin where, on a hire purchase system, such things were bought as the richest people in Christendom might well have been proud of. In ten days there was no knowing those two rooms at number twelve. Even the landlord, who had a motor-car that brought him up to business every morning from his house in Brixton, opened wide his mouth when he saw them, telling himself he was a fool for not asking a larger rent. They were not his taste. He liked plush on the seats of his chairs and green plush for choice; but he said they were damned fine.

It was Constance who arranged and superintended everything. Dicky looked on in quiet wonder, saying mildly what he wanted when he was asked. Not a word was said to him by Mrs. Baldwin, who, after she had heard the landlord on two occasions address Constance as Mrs. Furlong, was almost of the belief that they were married.

To Dicky, indeed, it was all a dream. Every night when he went upstairs to his attic bedroom he made an effort to understand it. What he had always regarded as a daring mode of life appeared so absurdly easy when it came to be adopted that at times it seemed to him as if the world were upside down. But there it was and, seeing that since that night when he had slept in the streets he had acquired his sense of humour, he took things as they came; realised that he was the beggar dropped into the soft cushions of the king’s own bed and accepted the delight of the inevitable with but a vaguely troubled mind.

A clear conscience, indeed, is a comfortable bedfellow. He slept no whit the worse, those last nights in his attic bedroom, for, if he had not pursued the most heroic course, if he had not gone straight away and left her, at least he had done his utmost to persuade Constance to marry him?. Many times since that night in the shop he had urged her to it again; but, now that she knew she was sure of him, there was no dissuading her from the course she had determined to adopt.

“You’re never goin’ to say no more about that,” she said. “You’ve got your paintin’ to do, and when I ’aven’t got a job at the music-’all you’ll be sellin’ pictures. I just want you to tell your Mr. Nibbs you aren’t married. He won’t say it to no one. Other people can think what they like. I’ll wear a weddin’ ring if yer want me to. It is nonsense, ain’t it? A little bit of gold and a parson ’ud call yer respectable. You’re not frettin’ about it now, are yer?”

Dicky shook his head.

“It’s no good,” said he. “I’m not going to lose you. Anyhow, I’ll buy you a ring—we may as well have the parson railing you respectable. By Jove! There’s Anne, too. What am I going to do about them at home?”

“Write and tell ’em you’re married. I sha’n’t ‘ave to meet your father, shall I?”

Dicky laughed.

“There’s no fear of that,” said he. “What ’ud it matter if you did?”

She looked at him steadily. It was the first time she had reminded him of it.

“I’m so common,” said she.

“You! Common!” he exclaimed.

“Yes; the way I speak. And look at mothtr Sunday mornin’s in ’er curlin’ pins!”

“You! Common!” he repeated. He took her by the shoulders and held her there before his eyes. “It isn’t the way people speak that’s common, that’s only a matter of chance. You may drop pitches but you pick up pearls—that’s what you do, you dear thing, and there’s not a lady in England has got the jewels in her heart that you have.”

This was warm like wine to her. It burnt her throat, brought the tears hot to her eyes.

“Do I drop my aitches?” she asked quaintly.

He took his hands from her shoulders and clasped them round her neck.

“I do h-ear myself do it sometimes,” she went on. “Only when I think of it, I’m so afraid I shall put ’em in the wrong places. Doesn’t notice when I’m singin’, yer know; that’s the funny part of it.”

“Don’t you worry about your aitches, you precious thing,” he whispered. “Just you say what you think and don’t you think how you say it. You’ll spoil it all if you do. Words don’t want aitches half so much as they want a mind as noble as yours to say ’em.”

He went off whistling one of her songs, cheerful as a cricket, to borrow money from Mr. Nibbs to buy the bit of gold to cheat the parson with. And there she stood some moments after he had gone, wondering if, after all, she might not have taken him at his word and married him.

“But it ain’t only aitches,” she said presently; “it ain’t only be’aviour at table, an’ things like that. I couldn’t leave mother, yer know—that wouldn’t be fair, an’ think of mother in a drawin’-room— you’d never get the paraffin off of ’er.”

CHAPTER XI

ON the day Dicky and Constance took up their abode at number twelve Great Queen Street they gave a party. The idea of it originated through Mrs. Baldwin, who conceived that if not the proprieties, then at least the customs should be observed. It was the first time she had tackled Dicky on the subject. He stood at the window of the sitting-room upstairs, blushing and flaming to his forehead.

“There’s no good your bein’ upset about it,” said she. “If Constance gets a thing nto ’er ’ead, not an operation wouldn’t get it out.”

“Well, I’d sooner you knew I did my best. I wanted to marry her, I do still, I shall always.” “It’s very nice of yer, I’m sure. Marryin’ into an oil shop ain’t much of a catch.” He did not deny it from that point of view, though he scarcely thought of marriage as a catch one way or another. However, when he made no reply to her remark, she set to defending the o.l-trade while he agreed with every word she said.

“Of course, it’s a trade,” she remarked, when he had agreed so much that to praise it was no longer worth while. “It ain’t a profession like paintin’— your sort of paintin’.”

“My father’s in a trade,” said he. “I suppose Constance thinks she might get tired of me and then we should be in queer street.”

“Well, you stop in Queen Street instead,” said Mrs. Baldwin. “I never knew such people as men for frettin’ ’emselves. Seems to me if a thin’s goin’ to be done a little bit funny like, women set their minds to it a good deal quicker than men. She’s not a-goin’ to marry yer, and there’s an end of t. It staggered me a bit at first, but now I’ve seen the weddin’ ring you bought ’er and the rooms is furnished—I dunno, but I’ve got quite used to it. Mind yer, I wouldn’t tell my sister over at Lambeth, but, Lord, there are lots o’ things I wouldn’t tell my sister at Lambeth as get to seem nothin’ when they’re done. Still”—and here she made a wise amendment, seeing that she was going too far in her endeavours to quiet Dicky’s conscience—“you mustn’t suppose as I agrees with that way of livin’. I disapproves— downright disapproves—but, as it’s got to be, there it is, and I think yer ought to ’ave a sort of party on Thursday night, yer know, because, to me, a person as goes miserable when ’e’s doin’ what ’e ought not to ought to be ashamed of ’imself. I’d ’ave no patience with ’im.”

So a party there was. Mr. Nibbs and Emily, Mrs. Ealdwin herself i.i the dress in which she went to the theatre on the Surrey side, Miss Shadbolt, too, and one of those admirers, Mr. Gossage, who came out of a haberdashery establishment in the Strand and brought its best silk socks, its most fashionable shirt, ts latest tie, all displayed upon his elegant person—they all were there.

There was first a meal in The Studio. The tramping of feet up to the top floor of number twelve was such that first and second floors left their doors open to see the party go by. In fact, Mrs. Beasly, of the second floor, spent at least ten minutes filling a jug from the water tap on the staircase the better to see them all as they made their way to the party given by the new tenants. A wedding has its fascinations. Mrs. Beasly was over forty, but she sat long that evening listening to the voices and the laughter overhead and, when her husband returned, reminded him that they hadn’t been to a picture palace together for a month of Sundays.

By the time that the first greetings were over, Dicky had forgotten to think of it all as a sham. There it was and, so far as he was concerned, they might have been married that morning. Only Mr. Nibbs and Emily knew that they were not, but when once he had felt the grip of the little print-seller’s hand, and knew that the matter had not earned his disapproval, he was prepared for anything.

Indeed, secretly, Mr. Nibbs was entirely satisfied.

“Mind yer,” said he to Emily, “I’m not sayin’ it’s the proper thing to do, but most great artists ’as done ‘,t, but I wouldn’t even ’ave ’im do it for that reason. She’s common, too—it was you said it first —but I wouldn’t ’ave ’im do it for that. She’s a real good sort.”

“Then I can’t see why yer pleased about it,” said Emily.

“ ’Oo said I was pleased?”

“Look at yourself in the glass,” she retorted, and this was while he was dressing for the party when a glass wias handy. “Yer eyes is stickin’ out of yer ’ead. I never saw such a bulge as you get in yer eyes when yer pleased with somethin’.”

He looked in the glass and, seeing how much his eyes did bulge, knew it was fruitless to deny it.

“Well, if I am pleased,” said he, “it’s because ’e’s goin’ just the way as I should expect ’ini to. ’E’ll be a fine artist, ’e will. There’s no stoppin’ ’im. Even this girl, and she knows nothin’ about it, she’ll ’elp ’im. You see it she don’t. She’s a rare sort. I wish ’e would marry ’er; but if she won’t—and you can put two and two together, can’t yer—you know why it is, it was Constable as did it—Constable and ’is Mary Bicknell. Well, if she won’t, she won’t. But ’e’s goin’ to be a great artist.”

So it is to be accounted for that when he arrived at number twelve Mr. Nibbs was in the best of spirits, taking his introduction to Constance—a superb piece of acting, nclining to the methods of the old school and the Surrey side—as though they, too, had never set eyes on each other before.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Furlong,” said he with an excess of geniality. “You’ve ’eard I’m i iterested in our young friend”—his eyes swelled with laughter—“I’ve ’eard ’c’s interested in you. Both of yer, yer ’ave my ’eartiest congratulations.”

He wrung her hand like a pump-handle and contrived in the process to draw her on one side.

“That was all right, wasn’t it?” he whispered.

She smiled and pressed his hand. It had been the one moment she had feared. Now that it was over, there was nothing but merriment. She turned round to greet Miss Shadbolt with eyes radiant.

“So you’ve swallowed it, my dear,” whispered that young lady. “I’m so glad—truly I am! Fancy you marr ed! Do seem queer, don’t it? I’m longin’ to be introduced to ’im. Oh, beg pardon. Just like me to be forgettin’—this s my friend, Mr. Gos-sage.”

At. this signal, Mr. Gossage left his cuffs alone, made one hasty arrangement of his tie, straightened himself from the easy negligence of hi i attitude and came forward.

“Hearty congrats, Mrs. Furlong,” said he. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

This being perfectly correct and said with the air of one who was well used to the awkward ceremony of introduction, he relapsed into silence, assuming his former attitude of negligence with a hand on the nearest chair.

There were half a dozen bottles of claret standing by the wall in readiness for the repast, one after another of which Dicky opened, regardless of sediment, as the meal progressed. On the floor below, Mrs. Beasly listened enviously to the sounds of merriment and to Mrs. Cooper who had come up from the first floor, the better to appreciate the noise of jollity, she remarked that they had had just such a bean-feast when she was married.

“Laughed, I did,” said she, “until my ’usband spilt a plate of that tinned soup over my dress— such a nice dress it was, too—all grey chiffong with just a bit of pink trimmin’, yer know—suited me to a T, that dress did.”

Whereupon Mrs. Cooper brought forth recollections of the dress she was married in and from all that she could call to mind it would have seemed to be a better dress than Mrs. Beasly’s. There was a piece of real lace on it. Mrs. Beasly had some real lace, too, on that occasion. Mrs. Cooper speaking of it had reminded her; but hers was really too valuable to wear. Hadn’t she got it still? Because if she had might not Mrs. Cooper have a look at it? But unfortunately that piece of real lace had been sold long ago.

“It ain’t easy to keep things after yer married,” said she, the truth of which being so profound that Mrs. Cooper could only nod her head, remembering all the things which she had parted with.

There came a moment when the laughter upstairs ceased. They heard the legs of a chair scraping on the floor as it was pushed back. A few murmurs of approval reached their ears.

“One of ‘etn’s goin’ to make a speech,” said Mrs. Beasly. She rose quickly from her chair, crept quietly to the door and opened it.

“It is a speech,” said she, and turned round, gasping as she found Mrs. Cooper on her heels. “Shall we go out on the landin’?”

They did go out on the landing, but the landing was not near enough. They tried the first step of the stairs. Before the speech was finished, they were outside the door on the landing on the top floor, both with their mouths open, both breathing heavily, as if they had colds, both profoundly impressed by all they heard.

For it was indeed a speech. After three large glasses of claret—dregs and all—Mr. Nibbs in an instant’s silence had suddenly ’•‘sen to his feet, glass in hand.

“A speech!” cried Mr. Gossage, who had been to public functions and knew what was expected of a man when he rose to his feet at table. “I was at a• big dinner at the Holborn Restaurant last week,” he said to Mrs. Baldwin on his left. “A dress affair.”

She nodded her head, thinking how nice her Constance was looking.

“Speech I” said Mr. Gossage again.

“Sit down, William,” said Emily.

But no, Mr. Nibbs was upon his feet and, once, he gets there, it is no easy matter to seat a man again when the words he has been preparing in silence for the last ten minutes are on the tip of his tongue. He took no notice of Emily.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, then shifted a fork upon the table, “it’s not often I ’ave the opportunity of makin’ an after-dinner speech-”

“You never did to my knowin’ before,” said Emily.

“Quite right,” he admitted, “I never did before; so you can’t expect me to be much of a ‘and at it.”

The fork looked crooked. He put it back in its original position.

“Any’ow, this is an occasion when I feel it my bounden duty as the oldest ’ere—”

“Modest!” murmured Mr. Gossage.

“Thank you, sir—as the oldest ’ere—” No one ever prepared a meal with the things straight on the table. He could see that the fork was crooked. He shifted it. “As the oldest ’ere-”

“Don’t rub it in,” said Mr. Gossage.

“To drink the ’ealth of the bri—or shall I say of Mr. and Mrs. Furlong.”

Mr. Gossage loudly rapped the handle of his knife on the table. Mrs. Baldwin felt the rising of a lump in her throat and said, “ ’Ear, ’ear!” thickly but audibly. Seeing his fingers feeling for the fork, Emily pushed it toward him and Miss Shadbolt looked up at him with eyes of admiration. This was the first company in whose presence she had ever heard a speech. She was wondering how he could think of the words. Only Constance and Dicky were disturbed; Constance since the moment of that half-spoken word, in fear of what he was going to say next; Dicky, caught n a furnace of self-consciousness, wishing the floor would open and plunge him in a well of water where all was darkness and no one could see his face.

When the sounds of the murmurs of approval had died away, Mr. Nibbs took a draught of his claret and went on:

“But before you fill up your glasses, I want to add a word or two to that toast.”

Where was that fork? He clenched his hand and bent his knuckles on the table. He was determined to leave the fork alone.

“I want you all to take a deeper—” Words were confusing things. He gripped the fork. It was easier to say it quite simply, “a bigger mouthful and add to the toast by drinking”—the end of the sentence hove in sight—“to the success of Richard Furlong. Not many of you I suppose ’as much to do with artists, but I ’ave, and I can say this-”

“Oh, don’t!”“said Dicky.

“I can say this,” persisted Mr. Nibbs, “that I never ccme across a young feller of such promise in the ’ole course or my career. I sell ’is pictures for ’im and ’e can put up ’is price if he likes, but I don’t care whether ’e knows what I think of ’im or hot, but I think ’e’s got a future in front of ’im, and w’th the ‘elp of Mrs. Furlong”—he raised his glass higher in the direction of Constance—“damned if I don’t think ’e’ll make a big name for ’imself, and I ’ope I live to see it. Ladies and gentlemen—the bride and bridegroom”—well, it couldn’t be helped; he had said it; he laid down the fork—“and the success of Richard Furlong.”

In a confusion of nervousness Dicky was just about to drink his own health. When he saw Constance’s hand stretched out for her glass, he came to his senses and laid a hand gently on her arm.

“To the bride and bridegroom,” said everybody, and Mr. Gossage contrived that his voice should be the last and sound alone—“and the success of R-ch-ard Furlong!”

The hand that Dicky had put forth to restrain he held beneath the table. Their fingers locked in a vise and neither of them felt the pain of it. When they had all seated themselves once more, Mr. Gossage rapped with his knife handle on the table.

“Pray silence,” said he, “for Mr. R.chard Fur long,” which, he informed Mrs. Baldwin, was what they always said at big dinners.

“No, no, I’m not going to speak!” cried Dicky in dismay.

“Must reply to the toast, sir,” said Mr. Gossage.

“Say somethin’,” whispered Constance.

“I would like to ’ear ’im,” remarked Miss Shad-bolt, and Mr. Nibbs told him it was all good practice for when he was President of the Royal Academy, at which all laughed, for no one believed it but Constance and Mr. Nibbs.

With the pressure of Constance’s hand, at last he rose to his feet.

“Everybody,” he said tremblingly, “if I could make a speech like Mr. Nibbs, I would; but it isn’t a bit of good. Saying—thank you, all of you—isn’t a speech, is it? And that’s all I’ve got to say, except that I’m—I’m a jolly lucky beggar. That’s—that’s what I want to say.”

The glasses rattled, knives and forks were thumped on the table. Mrs. Baldwin, thicker in speech with emotion than ever and less and less audible, kept saving to herself, “Poor boy—’e is a nice boy—poor boy,” for she felt precisely the same sensations of motherliness as when she had found him crying on his bed in the attic room of the oil shop. As the noise died away, Mr. Gossage seized his opportunity; he pulled down his waistcoat, straightened his tie, and rose to his feet. This was an occasion for speeches. He knew no one present but Miss Shadbolt, and never before had he aspired to oratory; yet in that moment it became his ambition to make a speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he—he was so self-possessed that he heard himself telling his companions the next day how he had made a speech at a dinner the night before.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said again, and then Constance looked at her watch.

“Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “I’m on at the music ’all in twenty minutes,” when there was rushing for hats and coats, and only Mr. Gossage stood still.

“Why shouldn’t we all go to the music ’all and give ’er a rouse?” said Mr. Nibbs.

They shouted delightedly at the suggestion. More hats, more coats were fetched. Mr. Gossage slowly drank the remainder of his claret and buttoned the bottom button of his coat. They were running and scrambled everywhere, and out of the midst of them went Constance like a flash.

“Sha’n’t be more than an ’our!” she cried. “We’ll all come back ’ere. So long!”

They flung open the door for her. She pitched into the speechless figures of Mrs. Beasly and Mrs. Cooper and was gone.

CHAPTER XII

HOW these things come about no one presumes to have a notion, but it drifted through the theatre that Constance had been married that day. Mr. Gossage may .have been speaking of it to Miss Shadbolt as they entered the vestibule. That gentleman in evening dress, whose business is described technically as the front of the house, with no reference to what he has to do there, he may have overheard Mr. Gossage’s remarks. This is the way it may have happened. However it was, the stage hands and the orchestra had wind of it. Possibly the gentleman in the front of the house told friends in the fauteuils; the young lady attendants may have carried it to the pit and to the bar, where it is uncomfortable to drink in silence, and, seeing that things must be said, gossip is a godsend.

Without further speculation it may be taken for granted that almost the whole house knew of it, for when Miss Constance Baldwin, vocalist and number four on the programme, came onto the stage, she got the rouse that Mr. Nibbs had promised, hut such a rouse as no six persons in the dress-circle could ever have accounted for. On and on it went, shout after shout, until the blush burnt through the paint on her cheeks as she realised that the whole house shared her secret.

With a motion of her eyebrows, she begged the conductor to begin, but he only laughed, sent her a kiss on the tip of his baton and let the applause beat itself out, while she must stand there, her eyes searching across the dazzling lights to the balcony where she knew her Dicky was sitting.

This was a moment when she could prove herself a favourite and ingenuous bewilderment did it for her. Had she taken it for granted as merely signs of their approval, in time the applause would have died away and the chance in her little career had been gone. But there she stood, nervous, amazed, no actress then, just a woman. The whole theatre saw that, and a mass of people form their judgements quickly as one. There was no paint, no limelight or footlights between her and her public then. She was one of them and every single person there in the audience who knew of it was proudly wringing her hand.

When at last she did begin, her voice was trembling, and Dicky in the dress-circle felt a lump in his throat which, without concealment, rose in tears to the eyes of Airs. Baldwin. But they none of them minded that trembling.

“Don’t worry yerself, miss; take it easy!” cried a voice from the gallery, and her trembling song was drowned in laughter and cheering once more. When that fell again to silence, she had found her voice—such voice as she had—and was singing as she had never done before.

Three encores she took and could have had as many more as she pleased but the next turn was waiting. When a little bunch of violets came up like a conjuring trick over the footlights, she bowed herself off and the curtain fell. This way came Constance to be a favourite of the Middlesex. They never forgot her after that night.

She knew a little tide of favour had turned, herself, and with a pounding heart went back to her dressing-room. It was not until then she found the violets in her hand, and, with a little cry at the joy of it all, buried her face in the flowers with a step-drawn breath of gratitude for everything. In the heart of them her nose found something hard. She pulled it out—a note. She laughed to think of herself a popular favourite, receiving notes in bouquets over the footlights. Her thought came to Mr. Nibbs, that little man in a thousand. She tore it open and read:

“God bless you—you dear thing.

“Dicky.”

And then the strain, that gradually had been increasing all that evening, snapped with a quick catch in her throat. The old dresser who attended to half a dozen of the girls came in and found her slipping off her clothes with the tears dropping down her cheeks and she ready to laugh or cry at will.

“Well, you are ’appy, ain’t yer?” said the old woman, whose genuine idea of happiness was tears such as these. “You’ve made a ’it of it to-night; they’re all sayin’ so.”

Constance chose to laugh, light of the sun through a fall of rain, and the old woman talked incessantly to her silence of complete contentment.

Outside the theatre they were all waiting. No more of the show was needed by them. To accompany a popular variety artist home from the theatre was more than Mr. Gossage had ever hoped for in that evening. It was more than he did.

Mr. Nibbs, with an inborn sense of gallantry, the desire to speak with Constance alone, and the stimulus of four tumblers of claret, took her arm and led her off himself, to Dicky’s, to everyone’s amusement but that of Mr. Gossage.

“My dear,” said he, knowing but concealing the fact from himself that the wine had excited his generous curiosity, “ ’ow is it yer won’t really marry ’im? Now don’t take no offence. I’m an old man, old enough to be yer father. ’Ow is it yer won’t?”

She walked with him in silence for a while, thinking how much more difficult is the way you choose from that you wish to go.

“D’yer remember,” she said presently, “what Mrs. Nibbs said to yer that day I came to your shop?”

“Said what?” he declared, “She said you was pretty.”

“Yes, but as I came back that time, I ’eard ’er. She said I was common, she said she wondered at ’im—at him—taking up with the likes of me.”

“just ’er nonsense,” said Mr. Nibbs.

Constance shook her head.

“Don’t spoil it all this evenin’,” said she. “I’m as ’appy as I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t want nothin’ better’n this. It wasn’t ’er nonsense. She was quite right. You said this evenin’ he’d got a future in front of ’im. You talked about ’is bein’ the President of the Royal Academy, and makin’ speeches and all that. Think of me sittin’ beside ’im then, droppin’ me aitches, and gigglin’—not knowin’ what to say to all them people. Don’t go and spoil ic all—I don’t want to think about it. We’re-just as good as married, I don’t want nothin’ better’n this. Come on, let’s catch ’em up. What did yer think of ’is little speech? And look at these—” She took the violets out of her dress. “His—he sent ’em. Ain’t I luck)? Come on, let’s catch ’em up.”

Mr. Nibbs was no match for her. She had put an end to his best intentions. What with the warmth of that claret still in his blood and the excitement of her success, he was ready to forego all his ambitions for Dicky. Women always found a weak spot in him. It was a spot he had no little affection for. He liked feeling weak about a woman. It was annoying not to be allowed to. He tried to resist her dragging him along to catch the others; but she knew the value of the present and would not have it spoiled with vain regrets.

“Come on,” she persisted, and. before they reached the door of number twelve, her arm was in Dicky’s, when no one, not even Mr. Gossage, presumed to intrude upon their whisperings.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, below her breath, “I found the little note, I found it, Dicky—right in the middle of the violets. Oh, my dear!”

That was not much to say, but it was full of expression. When he said nothing because he could say nothing, it was more expressive still.

They all assembled again in the room on the third floor, when Mrs. Beasly and Mrs. Cooper, both despairing of any hope of entertainment that evening, had taken each other to a picture palace. Then Constance sang to them and Mr. Gossage, with but little pressure from the company, recited “The Absent-minded Beggar,” brushing back the hair from his forehead and telling them, as he stood up to the effort, that once he had thought of going on the stage himself.

Notwithstanding that Mrs. Baldwin was getting sleepy, she gave the utmost of her attention, and, when it was over, proved that she had heard it all by saying that she wondered how anyone could remember so many words.

“It’s just a knack,” said Mr. Gossage. “Very difficult when you can’t do it, but easy enough when you can.”

It was Fmily who truly liked it, begged him to do another, and without much need of prevailing Mr. Gossage gave them a little thing which, when no one afterwards enquired as to its authorship, he reluctantly informed them was his own.

It was not a question of enjoying any one item of the entertainment. Had Mr. Nibbs executed impossible gymnastics, standing upon his head for the benefit of the company, they would all have been pleased. Then at last, when Mrs. Baldwin had yawned for the twentieth time, and Emily’s eyelids were dropping and heavy, the party broke up.

Dicky and Constance stood together at the (op of the stairs listening to the last footsteps of Miss Shadbolt and Mr. Gossage as they went away. The door onto the street slammed, the house was quite still. In the darkness on the landing below they could see the gleam of a cat’s eyes, the cat that Mrs. Blasly kept to save her bread from the mice.

“Don’t the)i glitter!” said Constance, who in the awful wonder of that moment dared say no more.

They turned back into their little room where the debris of the party scattered the floor. Nervously she stooped to pick up a tumbler that had fallen from the table, and when she stood up found Dicky’s arms open to take her.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

MR. NIBBS had known the worth of woman when he spoke of the help of Constance. From the day of that party at number twelve Dicky strode quickly onwards to the hour of his recognition. For though she knew nothing of his work, could offer no criticism, appreciate no subtlety or distinction, there was something, that something of which Madame Marco had known as well, something in the eager vitality of Constance’s affection that was a spur in the heart of his determination to succeed.

Every few weeks, had it been your custom to take train from Waterloo, you would have seen a new coloured wood-block by Richard Furlong placed prominently in the forefront of Mr. Nibbs’s window, those premises of the Waterloo Picture Framing Company. Various prints of these I have traced to various owners, who procured them in the days when they were one-tenth the value they ultimately became. But some of them unhappily are lost; one, which for subtle combination of breadth and daintiness I shall always regret, always remember. It was simple enough in construction, simple enough in treatment, yet one of the most decorative things I have ever seen.

He always had his love for Greenwich, but it was no greater than that love for Covent Garden where, what with the companionship of Constance, his youth and the years of his early struggle, it may well be supposed he spent the happiest days of his life. And this coloured wood engraving, the block of which was destroyed, was a study in the market of Covent Garden. A brilliant day in summer, shadows cutting sunlight to a keen edge, an old woman, the fine curves of her ample proportions just defined beneath the shade of a huge gingham umbrella, seated beside a fruit stall ablaze with colour in the light. Reds and yellows were heaped the one upon the other, all flung against the deep green shadows beneath that gingham canopy where the old market woman sat with folded hands upon her lap—asleep. Here was the subject.

Mr. Nibbs sold his print of that and never was able to trace it again. It was the only print that was made. By some mischance, one of the blocks fell into the hands of Mrs. Beasly, who, showing it to Mrs. Cooper, said:

“I suppose that’s what ’e does when I ’ears all that ’ammerin’ upstairs. I wish they’d ’ave a baby and then she’d soon stop ’im makin’ that noise— pretty quick she would.”

Mrs. Cooper looked at it, asking Mrs. Beasly what she thought it nrght be.

“Looks to me,” said Mrs. Beasly, “like one o’ them puzzle things—what yer cut out for children. P’raps she is goin’ to ’ave a baby and that’s what ’e’s doin’ it for. Countin’ yer chickens, I calls it, not to speak of the waste of time. Anyways, they can’t want it, seein’ where I found ‘t.”

Whereupon, declaring that it would make a nice little bit of firewood for her, for in Great Queen Street you grow stingy over candle ends and firewood, she chopped it up, saying that that was a noise he ought to be used to and flung it on the fire to heat Mr. Beasly’s dinner.

And this was the end of Dicky’s coloured woodblock, which, characteristically of all his titles, he had called “July.” Heat and summer, shine and shadow, they all were there and, in that plump somnolent figure beneath the shade of the umbrella, you could feel all the still drought of a summer’s day, when the very sight of the pyramids of oranges brought the water to your mouth.

He was never induced to do that block again; for though it needed but one, with the others still intact, it seems that it is impossible for an artist to repeat himself if his work is from his heart with the head to guide it. Long before his work began to claim the prices it deserved, the other blocks were destroyed as well, and “July” is only a memory to the few who saw it.

But there were more than two years of almost unrequited labour, selling a print here, a picture there, doing the hack work of illustration, struggling hard to come to mastery at the school, before Dicky-attained to recognition and, all that time, Constance took her engagements on the music halls, flinging her money with an open hand into the domestic exchequer, giving him the best years of her life as generously, indeed, as he gave his.

Life itself was near a fairy tale in those days at number twelve Great Queen Street. When the eagerness to give is on both sides, you turn attics into palaces and every day breaks forth with a ring of promise in the air.

Whenever the bolt dropped out of the blue, for in a fairy tale there is always that blue from which the bolt may fall, whenever he sold a picture or received an unexpected commission, there followed those glorious and improvident days when they would set off into the country, haphazard journeys, bringing them to woods and valleys, rivers and meadows where Dicky’s heart sang back aloud to the day s by the Avon when his mother was alive and all the fresh wonders of the world were in his eyes.

He charmed her then and more than on that day in the gardens at Kew. Of the birds of the country side she knew nothing, only of those tired, voiceless creatures that mope away their days on smoky window sills in Drury Lane. But he had stories of them all, a name for every one, a stave to whistle of their songs.

For an hour one day they sat and watched the tireless doings of a nest of ants—their soldiers, their sentinels, woodsmen, craftsmen, thieves, and all. She had never seen an ants’ nest before, and listened to the history of these makers of cities, with her lips apart, her eyes fastened in wonder on his face.

“Don’t let’s go back to-morrow,” she whispered when he stopped. “Let’s come back here again; I want to hear more. You make it all sound so wonderful. I never knew you was like this. I never knew any man could be like it. You’re wonderful, Dicky. What should I have done if I’d never met you? I should ’ave missed all this.”

“Will it always be wonderful?” said he.

“Always, always,” she replied.

Tc please her fancy, he told her tales of all the birds—made a world for them to live in; telling her the wagtail was a washerman—the blackbird, a doctor, busy on his rounds—the thrush a singer, hired by rich and poor. He pointed to one sitting on the corner of a thorn bush, singing its loudest to the dropping sun.

“He’s engaged by the doctor,” said Dicky; “the eggs hatch to-morrow and he wants to distract his wife’s mind from worrying too much.”

She came at last to prompting him for more.

“What’s that bird?” she would ask, pointing to some small hopping thing that fluttered in the hedgerow.

“A whitethroat.”

“What’s he do?”

“He helps the wagtail—starches collars—three berries a dozen.”

Such consummate folly as this! Such divine folly to her! And, besides their folly, there was work as well. He always returned to Great Queen Street with something accomplished. She sat beside him, reading, while he sketched or she lay stretched out in the sun, smoking innumerable cigarettes, until i’: was time for them to be setting back to their roadside inn, the Fox or the Crooked Billet, wherever they might be.

And all this time, for those first two years, she kept an ambitious eye upon his,work, learning by degrees those little catchwords of criticism which encouraged him to come to her for such counsel as she knew she was wholly unfitted to give. But it kept alight an interest n him only too ready to burn, and no fear of what the future might bring ever deterred her from urging him to his best endeavour.

It was one day, nearly a year after they had settled in number twelve, when Dicky was out securing document for a new wood-block and Constance was cleaning their little collection of old brass, that a knock, an unaccustomed sound to them, fell with a certain timidity on the door.

She was seated on the floor in the middle of the room, a brass candlestick in her lap, a cigarette between her lips. At the sound of that knock she jumped up, when the brass candlestick clattered to the floor. It was a trick of Dicky’s. He had played it before; to knock for her opening and then enquire whether the only woman in the world lived there. She flung open the door, her eyes lit up, her arms ready. It was a stranger in cutaway coat of country make, with buckskin gaiters on his legs and a low felt top hat set firmly on his head. The light dropped out of her eyes. Her arms fell to her sides; but he had seen, may even have understood.

“Does Mr. Furlong live here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you Mrs. Furlong?”

“Yes.”

He took off his hat and held out his hand.

“I’m Dicky’s father,” said he.

She held her breath and felt the trembling in her knees as she took the hand he offered. What had he come for? Had he come to find out? There was no fear in reason that he should, yet she was overwhelmed with the apprehension of It. It would be impossible to define the awe in which she stood of him, and Dicky was not there to help her out. He would find out how common she was. He would be quickest of all to detect the folly that his son had made; yet it would be still worse if he should learn the truth. There was no love in him, as there was with Dicky, to blind his eyes to her imperfections. Indeed, there was no love at all; for suddenly her blood grew hot at the thought of it. This was the man who had turned away her Dicky from his home! She stood there holding the door, making no offer to invite him within.

Then in her attitude, half of defiance, half of fear, the unhappy man saw with the sensitive eyes of pride that Dicky had kept nothing from her. And here was he where no pride or authority could avail.

“Isn’t Dicky here?” he said at last.

“No.”

The reply was definite, uncompromising. Yet he was conscious of feeling that, if she understood all, she would be sorry for him as well.

“When do you expect him back?” he asked.

“In about half an hour or so.”

“Didn’t you expect it was he when you came to the door?”

She nodded her head.

“Then mightn’t I come in and wait for a little while? I’m going back to the country to-morrow. I shouldn’t like to miss him.”

She opened the door wider and let him enter.

“Thank-ye,” he said as he passed her.

It was said with a show of ease, in a tone of good-natured familiarity, as though no trace of antagonism was there between them, nor cause for it at all. He sought to smooth things over by ignoring them, little knowing that with her, as indeed with most, the fire is better for a rouse when the smoke is smarting in the eyes.

It was tea-time. In silence she set about the making of the meal, bringing forth the old china cups which they had bought for this house of improvidence. For a few moments he watched her, silent as well, thinking, this is the girl Dicky had married, knowing there was a woman who had more claim upon his son than had he.

“.How’s Dicky getting on?” he asked presently.

She turned and faced him.

“Wonderfully,” said she. “He’s goin’ to be a great artist. I expec’ you don’t guess how great he’s goin’ to be.”

She spoke slowly and sounded every aitch, yet knew his eyes were on her; knew he was listening, as she was listening too, to every word she uttered. If only Dicky were there! She believed her conversation sounded less common when his voice was joining in with hers.

“How do you know he’s going to be great?” asked Mr. Furlong, with a smile. His voice was not unkind; his smile was not unkind, yet the blood came hot to her cheeks as she heard his question. There was a genial suggestion of doubt in it, doubt of her belief, the belief upon which she had ordered her life, upon which she had made her sacrifice. It was her one article of faith and he was questioning it.

V ’Ow do I know?” she exclaimed, and, in that moment of enthusiasm, knew an aitch had fallen too late to be replaced. “Well, I’ll show yer, if yer want ter know,” and from a spacious cupboard where he kept his work she drew forth one after another of his coloured wood-blocks, standing them one by one in that corner where she had learnt the light was best; one by one, the finest at the last. Such little tricks as these she had been quick to learn.

“And look at this,” said she, bringing him out the “Scavenger,” just finished then, the first pull from the school press, radiant in the best frame he had in his possession.

“ ‘The Scavenger,’ he calls that. A dredger, yer know, takin’ mud out of the Thames.”

She, who had never heard of a dredger in her life before!

“Mr. Nibbs, the dealer, has seen this one and he says it’ll live. That’s why he’ll be a great artist, because this picture’ll be sellin’ when you and I are turnin’ up our heels in a graveyard. They’re coloured wood-blocks, yer know. Don’t yer know what coloured wood-blocks are?”

He shook his head. She was triumphing. He knew he could not hold his own. This was a world other than his mill. He tried to find his feet, to meet her on her own ground.

“Well, he cuts ’em out of wood—first one block and then another, and prints ’em on paper with different coloured inks. You’d never think that was printed, would yer? And he’s got no press of ’is own; ’as to go up to the schools every time ’e wants to take a pull. You used to think ‘e couldn’t work, didn’t yer? Work! There are days when ’e gets the ’ump—hump—but when that’s cleared off, if it was only ’is fingers ’e was workin’ with, they’d touch the bone.”

Mr. Furlong sat looking at the “Scavenger,” knowing within his deeper consciousness that it was beyond his criticism, yet calling forth all his slender knowledge of art to find some little fault to hide the ignorance he felt, just like any critic in a day when criticism is dead.

“Of course,” said he, “I don’t think he ought to have made the dredger so dark against the rest of the picture.”

She was up in arms at once, hut weaponless except for love.

“You go and see the dredger down at Greenwich,” she declared, “where ’e did it. I betcher whatcher like, it’ll get up and ’it yer, like that one does there.” That was one of her catchwords. She had heard that often. When a thing got up and hit you, it was good. “There was a man came and bought a picture of Dicky’s from Mr. Nibbs; he was the same man as bought the first that Dicky ever sold. The other day he came in and bought another. And d’yer know what ’e said?”

Mr. Furlong shook his head.

“ ’E said, ‘This boy,’ said ’e, ‘sees truer than many o’ the artists we’re boastin’ about in this country.’ In this country, mind yer, not just in London. ‘When ’e gets technique,’ ’e said, ’e’ll do somethin’.’ And one of the dealers, the real dealers in Bond Street, wants ‘is work now. Wants to bind ’im up for three years; but Mr. Nibbs ’as begged ’im not to. ‘Sell ’em a picture or two,’ ’e says, ‘but for God’s sake don’t tie yerselfl’ And ’e’s not goin’ to, though they’re ofierin’ ’im a ’un-dred and fifty a year for three years to work for ’em.’’

“What do they give him for the separate pictures?”

“They won’t buy ’em—not unless ’c binds ’imself. But they’ll buy ’em yet. Mr. Nibbs says so. ’E knows ’em—twenty-five percenters! Now aren’t yer proud of ’im?”

She threw her head back, and, aitches or no aitches, she asked the question to his eyes. If she was common, she was DLky’s choice. Any who dared might accuse him of folly.

“Aren’t yer proud of ’im?” she repeated, and, as he heard steps hastening up the stairs, admissions to women being always easier than they are to men, he bent his head.

“Yes, I—I am,” said he, shutting his lips against the thought to plead she should not tell him so.

CHAPTER II

UDOUBTEDLY the moment was the most his astonishment. All the disadvantage was on Mr. Furlong’s side. He was not under his own roof; here, no matter what relationship, he was not master, and, beside him, ready to do battle at the faintest provocation, was one of that sex which he had often pretended to but had never even dimly understood.

Yet, when it is considered the odds that were against him, he faced the situation with courage. In the unhappy smile that lurked beneath his moustache, his own father, had he been alive to see him then, would have remembered the boy of ten, nerves strained to take his thrashing. Even to Dicky, it was a strange expression which a lightning instinct read to him as fear. There was almost apprehension in his father’s voice, but he carried it all off with a certain jauntiness, a certain spirit of comradeship, the first retreat from those outposts of his attack, the first admission that this son of his had become a man. This was all because of Con- distressing to Mr. Furlong when the door opened and Dicky stood there, silent in stance; for it is women who give us the dignity of manhood and it is women who take it away.

In full apprehension of the result and well remembering that sceni which had taken place between them at the Mill, Mr. Furlong stepped forward, holding out his hand. The instinct prompting him to refuse it was gone from Dicky in a moment. He put out his own.

“How are you, my dear boy?” said Mr. Furlong, and the look of fear gave way to a broad smile. His hand gripped Dicky’s warmly. He was filled with relief now that the tension of that moment had passed.

They all sat down to tea together, Constance waiting on them, knowing the things of which she was most capable, refusing to be helped. For a while they talked of the Mill, of Eckington, of all the people thereabout; the changes that had come, few enough in that corner of the world, since last Dicky had been there. Only the name of Dorothy was left unmentioned. Ann was shortly to be married. Mr. Hollom had got a master’s appointment at a small school in Pershore. They would live only a few miles from Traliord Mill.

And all this time, until tea was finished, Constance said nothing. The moment of her antagonism was passed into a mild acceptance. She was left wondering how common he had found her to be. What had she said? How had she said it? Some aitches she knew had fallen in her speech. Had he noticed them? In excitement, in enthusiasm, did not the best of people drop their aitches, make little slips of speech which in numberless cases would pass unnoticed?

But it was more than that. Beyond every defence which she could make for herself lay the insistent knowledge that she was common by birth; that between herself and Dicky was fixed a gulf, indefinable to her except in the meaning of that word—class, which only the bridge of his affection could span.

Depressed at last at the thought of what must be inevitable in Mr. Furlong’s mind, she rose to clear the tea things away, and, when they were collected on the tray, took them silently from the room.

As soon as the door had closed, Mr. Furlong leant forward in his chair “I congratulate you, my dear boy,” said he. “You’ve found a champion there.”

How little he had realised of the commonness which she feare4 it might have surprised Constance to learn! True, he had noticed the fallen aitches, the cockney twang, here the little want of ease, there the awkwardness of speech, yet the impression left with him was of a noble woman which no distinction of class could overrule.

“You’ve found a champion there,” he repeated, and, to Dicky’s pleased smile, in which he saw some want of comprehension, he related how she had spoken in his defence, showing his pictures and pointing out their qualities with the fierce enthusiasm of her sex. Only of the confession which she had forced from him did he say nothing. His coming there to see Dicky was as great an admission of defeat as he was capable of. It was enough to have given up the scabbard of his authority. It was not in the character of the man to give up his sword, even in honourable defeat.

“But she knows a great deal about pictures, my dear boy,” said he. “I suppose you’ve taught her.”

Dicky smiled. The great deal that Constance knew I He realised then how fervidly she must have spoken.

“She knew a lot without my teaching,” said he, and set her up above his father’s ignorance with the brave intent, knowing her battles, to fight them for her too.

“Does a little at it herself, I suppose?” he suggested.

Dicky shook his head.

“No? Well, p’raps that’s all the better. A woman’s sphere Is in the home. That’s what I think myself.”

Dicky nodded gravely, as though he entirely agreed, yet was wondering what his father would think if he knew that partly through Constance’s work on the music halls that improvident little home of theirs was kept in its improvident way.

“Where did you meet her?” Mr. Furlong asked presently. “You didn’t tell Anne when you wrote and said you were getting married. She’s a Londoner, I can see that.”

“Yes, I met her in London.”

“Her people live here, then?”

“Her mother does. Her father’s dead.”

“I like that look in her eyes,” Mr. Furlong continued. “It’s a good look, that look in her eyes. They’re set wide apart. It’s a funny thing, but I’ve always been able to tell a woman by the look in her eyes.”

Dicky looked questioningly at his father, wondering if he had always talked nonsense like that all his life, or was it because he was getting old, or Dicky himself growing wiser. Whatever it might be, he realised the folly it was to talk of knowing any woman by the look in her eyes.

“I’m sure she’s a dear, good girl,” Mr. Furlong concluded; and that showed what nonsense it was, for he would have said just the reverse had he known. A few remarks like these and Dicky found himself being sorry for his father; found himself wondering what Christina, his mother, had ever seen in him. Yet at the back of all these criticisms was a sense of respect because the man was his father, for whom, though all fear of him had gone, the spirit of obedience still remained.

But he would tell him no more of Constance, well knowing the want of understanding in his father, and when Mr. Furlong found that no further eulogy of his could bring from Dicky the satisfaction to the paternal curiosity he felt, he turned to the discussion of his son’s work, asked him how he was getting on, said he had heard talk from Constance of Bond Street dealers, and supposed, with a laugh, because he meant it as a joke, that one of these days they would be seeing a picture of his in the Academy.

“I still come up to London and go to the Academy every year,” he added. “You know we’ve got some fine artists in this country. I even prefer them to the French myself.”

“What French artists do you like?” asked Dicky solemnly.

“Oh-—well—I know the man’s name well enough, but I can’t remember it for the moment. lie’s very fine, I know’—does beautiful nude figures, and I can’t help liking the nude myself.” He smiled, even as one man smiles to another. “I shouldn’t have said that to you a few years ago,” said he. “But I suppose you have to do more of less that sort of thing yourself, learning the anatomy of the figure and so on. Mr. Leggatt, at Eckington, doesn’t approve of it at all, not that drawing from the nude.

But I wouldn’t object myself. If a man has to learn his work, he must learn every branch of it. At least that’s what I say, and I’m sure you agree with me.

Dicky did agree.

“Yes, of course,” he said, but his brain was whirling at the nonsense he was listening to. To call it nonsense was disrespectful, yet, seeing that it was his own work they were discussing, nonsense was the only word for it. He scarcely knew how to reply without showing his father what he thought and hoped fervently that Constance would return to ease the tension of their conversation. A knock on the door brought him quickly to his feet, but, hearing the door of their bedroom open onto the landing, he stopped, knowing that Constance had gone to see who it was.

“I don’t suppose any work of mine will ever get into the Academy,” Dicky said at a venture.

Mr. Furlong nodded his head.

“Well, there’s no harm in trying,” said he.

“I didn’t mean that,” replied Dicky in despair. “I shall send it up, of course, because that’s the way to make money and get yourself known, and, so far as that goes, I wouldn’t mind getting in. Of course, it’s cant, nothing but cant with a lot of ’em, who say the Academy’s no good.”

Mr. Furlong sat straighter in his chair.

“No good!” said he.

“Yes, no good, and it isn’t, either. Their standards are rotten. Why, if you take their selection committee alone, you’d know why that was. No artist is a real critic of another man’s work, even when he’s successful. Some of the critics are failures, too, and do you think there’s any man big enough, writing for the papers or judging for any society, to admit that a man can do what he can’t do himself? Why, the people who criticise the Academy are usually the people who can’t get in.” “I’m rather surprised to hear you say this,” said Mr. Furlong. “I always thought the Academy was the high-water mark.”

“It’s much better that you should,” replied Dicky. “It’s a stale wheeze to say it isn’t. It is the high-water mark, of course—the high-water mark of success, and success, I suppose, is a very good thing.” “What you hope for, Dicky, I’m sure,” said Mr. Furlong with a laugh.

Dicky promptly denied that.

“If I ever get that sort of success,” said he, “I shall know I’m on the very verge of going under.” “These young men get strange ideas,” thought Mr. Furlong. He was not sure that he liked the spirit it exhibited. With his limited ideas upon art, it were as scandalous a thing to decry the Royal Academy as to his sense of worship it would be sacrilegious to criticise the Church of England. He was not exactly in the position to say so, but he looked at Dicky with a steady eye. saying to himself, “He’ll know what I’m thinking about.” Dicky returned that look, wondering if his father realised what nonsense he had been talking.

But outside that room, on the landing, more vital things were happening than any discussions upon Royal Academies or the lost art of criticism, which, when you come to think of it, matters so little with people who can choose for themselves.

Without knowing it, Constance was facing one of those problems in life upon which no one can pass impartial judgement. At the sound of that knock, she had opened dho door of her bedroom, and there stood Mrs. Baldwin—Mrs. Baldwin, none too tidy, escaped from her duties at the oil-shop for five minutes to have a cup of tea with her pair o’ kids, as she called them—her mother, just presentable, and that was all.

But it was not a matter of presentability alone. Fresh from depression at the thought of what effect she had made upon Dicky’s father, Constance knew well how her mother would be a seal upon her class. There was no stopping to pick up an aitch in Mrs. Baldwin. Where ‘t fell, it lay, and it was not long before another dropped beside it. As Constance had once said herself, there was no getting the paraffin off of ’er. And she had chosen this moment of all others to make her appearance.

The first feelings in the mind of Constance were of bitterness and despair.

“Well, what do yer want, mother?” she asked in a voice which Mrs. Baldwin, from experience, knew demanded careful treatment.

“Got a touch of indigestion, dear?” asked she, and walked into the bedroom, through such narrow space as her daughter had given her for entrance. Constance came in, closing the door. She knew her mother had come for company; knew she found her days dreary in the oil shop now that she was alone; knew that she would come twice as often as she did, only for her sensitive fear of being in the way. At any other moment she would have welcomed her, for there was a soft corner in the heart of Constance for her mother, with all her follies. Now, at least for the moment, she felt nothing but bitter annoyance that Fate should thus oppose her.

“Why should I ’ave indigestion?” Constance asked sharply. “P’raps I ’ave. We’ve just ’ad tea.”

She watched her mother’s face as she made this announcement.

“Is it too late for me to ‘ave a cup, then? I just come over for a minute—thought you might give me a cup. The smell of that oil shop gets on my nerves sometimes, does really. Then I think of you ’avin’ a nice ’ot cup o’ tea down ’ere, and I gets fidgetty. No good my servin’ anyone then, I’m only rude to ’em. Is ’e workin’?”

She nodded her head in the direction of the sitting room, well knowing that if work were being done in there it was no place for her.

Constance looked with a straight eye mto her mother’s face. That desire of the poor woman for company, the old remembrances of how the smell of that shop could get on the nerves, the frequent wonder, now that she knew of the country herself, how her mother could bear it for five minutes, and, with it all, those grey hairs she had once known to be brown, those cheeks, seared with wrinkles, she had once known to be smooth, they all combined to melt her bitterness to compassion. She still hoped that her mother would go away, but was too proud to tell a lie and say that Dicky was working.

“He’s inside,” she said. “His father’s there with him.”

“ ’Is father? The old gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“’E doesn’t know, do ’e?”

“Know what?”

“That you ain’t married.”

“No.”

“What’s ’e like? Quite nice, I expect. Proud of you. I’ll be bound.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Constance replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, we ain’t their class, are we?”

“Oh, like that, is it? If ’e showed it, ’e’s not much class ’imself.”

“ ’E never showed it,” said Constance quickly. “That’s only what I suppose.”

“ ’E was nice to yer, then?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Of course ’e was, why shouldn’t ’e? I’m curious to see ’im, yer know—that’s only natural, ain’t it?—because ’e might ’ave been your father-in-law if you’d liked. Anyway, meetin’ Dicky’s family does make it seem a bit more proper—don’t it?” “Do you really want to see ’im?” asked Constance gently.

“Course I do—is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

There were a thousand reasons. There was one paramount beyond them all. She looked at her mother, at the untidy bonnet, the cape she had slipped on just to run down and have tea with her kids, and she questioned, not whether it were fair to herself, but whether it were fair to Dicky. Fair to herself it might not be, but her mind had passed that moment when such thoughts mattered. She even forgave the little touch of snobbery in her mother’s desire to meet Dicky’s father, for t was snobbery, human enough, certainly English enough, ‘lie pathos of the woman, lonely n her oil shop, with nerves on edge, coming down to them for company and only when the inclination had become too strong for her to resist, this had reached the large heart of Constance. She was her mother, too, and any shame of Mrs. Baldwin was shame of herself. She was too proud to admit that. Yet for Dicky’s sake- It was well indeed that they had never married!

And there was Mrs. Baldwin still waiting for her answer. With a sudden impulse Constance gave it. Without a word she set about the tidying of the good woman, retying the bow of her bonnet strings, splaying out the ends, patting them down, smoothing out those wrinkles in the cape, thrusting in beneath the bonnet the loose and straggling wisps of hair. And to it all, with a pleased smile of gratification on her face, Mrs. Baldwin stood as good as a baby in a bathtub. She knew she needed a tidying hand; she did not know that she was required to be a lady.

The moment it was finished the door of the sitting room opened. Dicky came in.

“Hullo,” said he, and closed the door behind him. Constance waited, with heart beating, to know what he would do. At all costs, she was prepared to take her cue from him. Neither of them saw how closely she watched his face, and when it broke into a broad grin she slowly smiled as well.

“Has Constance told you?” he said below his breath. “My pater’s in there. It’s as funny as a Punch and Judy show. Come on, somebody must help me out. He’s talking about pictures—pictures! My God! Come on!”

He took Airs. Baldwin’s arm, dragging her to the door. She stopped him there and whispered in his ear. There was no hearing what it was she said, but Dicky’s answer came home to Constance like a gift from heaven.

“What rot!” said he. “Do you know what my pater was before he married?”

Mrs. Baldwin shook her head.

“He was a butler, in service, handing round the wine. What rotl”

Then they had gone, and in the bedroom, alone, Constance held her hands together, her cheeks burning to think that for one moment she had been ashamed; her heart still beating, wonder ig if there were anyone as big as Dicky in the world.

CHAPTER III

FOR a long time that summer and well into the autumn, life was precarious enough for these two in their home under the slates. To begin with, there was no engagement for Constance at that time at the Middlesex. An opportunity of work ottered in the provinces, but she refused it, declaring that seven pounds a week would not take her away from Dicky. He was well pleased to let her stay, and, when a Regent Street dealer made him a tentative offer of five pounds for one of his wood-cuts, was so convinced that fortune was at his feet, that at a moment’s notice they set out for their oft-frequented inn, the Fox, in Hampshire on the road to Eversly.

The precariousness of existence for the next few months all arose out of this. With enough money for a return ticket, eager as children, they took the train to the nearest station, chartered the musty fly, and drove with all the suggestion of opulence to the inn. When the driver was paid, ten shillings jingled in Dicky’s pocket. But he had left his address with the picture dealer. In two days the five pounds was to be sent to him.

“This is what I call life,” said Dicky, as they sat down to a meal of bacon and eggs in their little parlour to the sound of the clicking of bagatelle balls in the bar parlour beyond.

It was what anyone would call life.

On the second day there was no letter from the dealer.

“It’ll come to-morrow,” said Dicky, and went out onto the village green playing cricket with the village boys until the sun began its dropping down the sky. Then they set off to walk across the wide warm flats of heather where the larks were rising for the last hour of the day and the red sun was turning the yellow gorse to flame.

“My God! Look at it all!” he muttered, and she listened most when he was talking to himself. “It took Turner to set the world alight with a sunset.” She asked no more who Turner might be. She had learnt all about Turner from Dicky. It was not really interesting to her at the Tate Gallery, but she had spent many a happy hour there with him. “That’s what he did, you know’,” said Dicky, and he looked round, alight himself, into her eyes.

“Courage, that’s what it wants,” he went on. “Half tone? are no good—half colours, half measures! That’s the sort of thing that takes your breath away, that knocks you out.” He flung his hand with a gesture at the sunset, the broad sea of burning heather, the flaming islands of gorse. “Half the men paint in their studios, and what the devil can you see in a studio! I’d like to live out in. a hut in a place like this and let them take my stuff or not, as they wanted it. Fancy having a show Sunday! Fancy having a lot of gaping idiots coming in to tea and talking art when they’ve never felt beauty for one minute in their lives.”

“Shall we come and live in the country then, Dicky? I’d live anywhere you like, anyhow. We could get on all right in a little hut. I wouldn’t mind. I expect it ’ud be bigger than our two rooms in Great Queen Street.”

There was a note even of eagerness. In a little hut on the open flats of heather she saw Dicky hers for all time. But it was that note of eagerness in her which brought him back to earth. lie had to get on; had to win his way, and believed, as they all believe, that you cannot afford a hut until you can buy a house. For that is the poison of it. Until the house is bought, each nerve is strained and the very best is done. Not one of them calculates upon the discomforts of the hut when once the house is built; not one of them thinks how, through all the ages before the judgement in Eden, man was a creature of ease, and needs but the faintest persuasion from the Delilah of luxury to return to ease again.

“No, it must be London for some time yet,” said he. “London till I see my way, and then this, you and I and—this.”

She came from that moment to dread her London, yearning for the country. He ‘ideed had made it alight for her. It was those people with their show Sundays, their social gatherings in drawing-room studios, whom she feared. Yet his was the way and he must choose it. Her belief in him was great enough to hope that he at least would never become one of them. Perhaps would they reach the country before then? She shut her eyes, and still could feel the flaming sunset through their lids.

The next day there was still no letter from the dealer. In some apprehension they walked into Yateley, sending a telegram from the little post office on the green. The following morning came the reply that the customer who had contemplated buying the wood-block had decided that it was too broad in treatment. It had been returned to Great Queen Street with many thanks for the opportunity of purchase.

Dicky laid the letter down on the table, and Constance, who had been reading it over his shoulder, snatched it up again in disgust.

“Oh, they are beasts!” she exclaimed. “I’d like to tell that dealer what I thought of ’im. Mean beast! Hasn’t got the sense to buy it ’imself.”

“Takes more than sense,” said Dicky. “You want courage as well to buy a good thing.” And that bravado was the utmost satisfaction he could get out of it. Yet even then he looked up with a comical grin on his lips. “But how are we going to get out of this?” said he, and he laid five shillings and threepence down on the table.

There was one way out of it. It was her suggestion. Constance had a voice; she could sing. There were people to listen to her in London, why not in the streets of Camberley and Wokingham? She insisted that she would go alone rather than not at all. They walked even so far as Reading one day and returned with nine shillings, thrown in coppers and sixpenny pieces into Dicky’s cap. Both made a joke of it, counting the gains as they walked back to the Fox at night: with difficulty keeping from laughter at the sight of the passers-by who stopped to listen, attracted by Constance, wondering at him.

These were good days, with the warm breath of adventure in them; but, coming back to London, they found arrears to be met and nothing with which to meet them. For the rest of that summer, ordering life upon one first principle that they would take no help from Mrs. Baldwin, they lived in the fear of what Dicky chose to call his bankruptcy. Rent was always overdue; bills unpaid. Unable even to afford herself a new pair of stockings, Constance, calling herself an inventor, blackened with ink the white skin that showed through an offensive ladder on her ankle, and was sure the whole world saw the trick.

Yet there was the goodness in these days, too. Dicky was doing better work than ever. He cared for nothing so long as she found contentment. But that contentment which showed in her was greatly for his benefit alone. Secretly in her heart she nursed that destiny of women which pursues them in joy or sorrow with inevitable wonder or distress.

When the cherry trees through all the countryside where they wandered were bursting white in bloom, when birds were pairing and the wryneck was a-whistling in the cuckoo’s call, she came to know that she was to be a mother.

As soon as they had returned to London she had gone to see her mother. Notwithstanding all the affection she felt for her, Mrs. Baldwin had never been the recipient of her daughter’s confidences. It was no easy matter to begin them then, but Constance came straight to her story, prepared for the accusation of folly which she would not admit to herself she deserved.

Much to her surprise, no accusation followed. If ever women are practical, it is in moments such as these. Mrs. Baldwin listened in silence until she was sure what was coming, and then, the moment she guessed, began tidying up the room while she waited for the complete confession.

‘‘What’s Dicky say?” she asked when Constance had finished.

“ ’Aren’t told ’im,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“ ’Cos ’e’s workin’ ’ard just now, and, besides that, ’e’s makin’ a printin’ press for ’imself out on a mangle ’e bought. The one at the school ain’t large enough for the wood-blocks ’e wants to do. I ain’t goin’ to worry ’im just now. ’E’s worried enough as it is.”

“ ’Ow about yerself, though?”

“What about myself?”

“Well, what’s ’;s old wood-block, or ‘is mangle printin’ press, ’pared to a baby? You’ve lost yer ’ead over ’im, that’s what you’ve done, Constance. ’E may be clever an’ all that, an’ ‘e’s a nice boy— I’ve always said ’e was—but what’s all ’is cleverness to a baby, that’s what I want to know. With all ’is dodgin’ about with paints and stuff, riggin’ up printin’ presses out of old mangles and messin’ away on little bits of paper, ’e can’t make nothin’ that’s goin’ to be anythin’ like a baby, can ’e?”

“I wonder,” said Constance, and listened, as one listens to the first song birds of the year, to those stirrings of motherhood in her heart. It was a child of Dicky’s that was to be born; but was it really that that mattered so much as that it was a child at all. It was a child of his; but hers was the possession of it then. Were she to die, it would die with her. Irrevocably it would be hers to call her own.

“I wonder,” she said again.

‘‘Don’t know what yer wonderin’ about,” replied Mrs. Baldwin. “You wait till the little thing’s born, you won’t think so much about paintin’ and fiddlin’ about then, so long as ’e gets you enough to look after it with. I can’t make you out, Constance—straight, I can’t. You never used to give way to me like this, I know that.”

She looked squarely at her mother with the eyes that Dicky knew.

“You ’aven’t ’eard “ n talk like I ’ave,” said she. “You ’aven’t ’eard the things ’e says about ’is work. I always used to think men painted pictures and did the writin’ of bonks just to make money. And p’raps they do, for all I know. I only know Dicky doesn’t. There’s somethin’ that makes ’im work— and work ’ard, too—that we don’t know anythin’ about. I can’t explain it. It’s a riddle to me. But I know what I mean. P’raps you’re right about when the baby’s born. I may think different then. But ’e won’t; not in the bottom of ’is ’eart ’e won’t. Why, I found ’im the other day, somethin’ ’ad gone wrong with the pr’ntin’ press, ’e couldn’t get it to come anythin’ like right. Well, Dicky ain’t no baby, but ’e was cryin’ ’is eyes out. That’s what I mean. A man don’t cry if ’e can’t make money; ’e just lumps it. And I know Dicky better’n you do. If I tell ’im I’m goin’ to ’ave a baby, I know what ’e is; ’e’ll worry over it as if Vs goin’ to ’ave it ‘imself. ’Specially as we’re not married.”

All the conventionality, all sense of the fitness of things rose to the surface in Mrs. Baldwin at the sound of that.

“Well, yer know what you’ve got to do, don-cher?” said she.

“Do what?” said Constance.

“Well, you’ve got to get married, of course.”

“Why?”

“Well, yer don’t get no pity from me if you ’ave a child not born in wedlock, whatever they calls it.”

“What’s the difference?” Constance enquired. “You didn’t make no fuss about our livin’ together. I’m not goin’ to force him to marry me if that’s what you think. If things come out as Mr. Nibbs thinks they will, and I know they will, ’e can get on better without me. I shall ’ave the child, and that’ll be more than somethin’, won’t it?” She was thinking of it as Dicky’s child then, the all of him that would be left to her.

“Well, you don’t get no pity from me,” repeated Mrs. Baldwin, and pulled down the wmdow to a resounding noise to convince herself that she meant it.

But the moment Constance had gone, and she was not one to waste time when it came to the slamming of windows, Mrs. Baldwin melted into the tears that were her customary solace in moments of adversity.

“Yer can’t ’elp likin’ ’er,” she sobbed. “I know I can’t. She’s lost ’er ’ead over that boy, that’s what it is; she’s lost ’er ’ead over ’im. And ’e’s a nice boy—I will say that about ’im—’e’s a nice boy.”

CHAPTER IV

MR. NIBBS was of the opinion that no printing press—properly so called, he added—could ever be made out of an old mangle. Emily, justly associating the machine with the weekly washing, had a poorer opinion of art than ever. But Dicky struggled on.

“I’m not going to limit myself to a block ten inches by six,” he declared. “How could I possibly do what I wanted to, cramped up like that? The school press is all right for students to play about on. I’m not playing.”

Mr. Nibbs admired his determination, but despaired of the result. For all their bulk, printing presses, he knew, were delicate machines, and where was any delicacy to be found in a mangle?

“But ’e’s a plucky young fellow,” he said to Emily; “’e’s got the right grit in ’im. It’s a ten to one chance against ’is ever making anything out of that mangle. ’E knows it, too, but ’e’s workin’ at it every right. What I’m afraid is ’e’ll be terribly dis’eartened with the result. And I know what it means to ’im, to be cramped with a block ten by six. It don’t allow ’im to develop ‘imself.”

Suddenly he looked up from a gold mount he was cutting on the counter.

“Emily,” said he, “it’s an awful thing to think of that boy ’ampered and ’eld up just for want of a printin’ press. It may be puttin’ ’im back years, a little thing like that.”

Emily raised her eyes from her novelette, quickly fixing her glance upon the little man. She knew what he was leading to. Long experience had taught her what happened when a spirit of philanthropy got the better of her husband.

“That’s quite enough,” said she, “quite enough. We ain’t an institution. We’re just ’usband and wife and what you gets over and above—and it ain’t much—I gets to the good. What do them printin’ presses cost?” she added, half relenting when she saw the pained expression of disappointment in Ms face; but when she heard it was a matter of twelve pounds or so, she shut up her book without even turning down the page, and said such things to Mr. Nibbs on the subject of that charity which begins at home as only women who are greatly dependent on it can possibly think of saying. What is more, every single word of it was true, and, being susceptible at all times to the truth, Mr. Nibbs held out no longer.

But fate conjures and conspires with the destinies of men. Some weeks later the electric bell at number twelve Great Queen Street—that electric bell which raised their quality above that of Mrs.

Cooper, whose summons was the common wire-rope contrivance likely to be pulled out of joint, which raised them higher still above Mrs. Beasly, who had no bell at all but must answer the knocker on the front door—their electric bell rang loudly one morning, rang persistently, and brought Constance hurrying from the bedroom to look out of the front windows in order to see who was down in the street below. Cutting out a fine line on his new wood block, the first that was to be tried on the mangle press, Dicky did not even look round. Breath must be held over these delicate operations. The flare of trumpets on the day of judgement would not have raised his head just then.

She glanced back at him, clasping her hands together, her breath coming quickly, wondering how she would break it to him. And then the line was finished. lie turned and caught her look.

“What’s the matter?” said he.

“There’s a cart,” she replied.

“What sort of a cart?”

It had entered into his mind now, flashing in a thought from hers. Rent was overdue. Frequent applications had been made, suggestions of distraint and all those horrors of compulsion of which you realise nothing until the wolf is at your very door, lie ran quickly to the window and looked out.

“They shan’t take the press,” said he. She had thought of that too, and the bed in the other room, where, when Dicky was away these days, she often lay in sickness nursing the secret in her heart.

He looked out of the window again.

“Somebody’s opened the door for them,” said he. “Silly fools!”

They stood there together then, waging, as the sound of footsteps mounted the stairs.

“There are two or three of them,” he muttered, and, as the knock fell heavily on the door, her hand stretched out and touched his. She went to the door, and, turning, she looked about her. There were the things they had called their own. She had thought often of their child being born in that little room inside. Another day or so and Dicky might have found the money. Perhaps they would listen to that; but it was not like the law as they knew it in Drury Lane.

“Good morning,” said Dicky.

“Good morning.”

He was handed an envelope, and hung back, having heard of summonses. The man jerked out his hand, when, conscious of the inevitable, Dicky took it from him, read the contents on a little card inside, then looked at Constance. She came at once, taking his arm.

“From your friend in the train.”

That was all she read, all there was to read.

“What—what is it?” he asked.

“A printin’ press, sir. Where do yer want it?”

He stood aside, and there behind him were two men, resting from their exertion of carrying upstairs the parts of a large machine. Dicky trembled and his voice was shaking when he told them to bring it inside. Piece after piece they carried it into the room. In an hour it was fixed up, complete, a great big press with levers and wheels and frames, a very toy from the gods with which the mightiest of men might play at life. When all was finished they stood there panting, out of breath, enquiring whether everything was to his satisfaction. To his satisfaction! The poorest intelligence must have taken their meaning. Dicky’s hands went to his pockets, knowing what was there. In all distress he turned to Constance. She shook her head.

“I’m very, very sorry,” said he, “but do you know I haven’t got a penny in the place.”

Slowly, one after another, their breath regained, they trooped out of the room with murmurs and mutterings, all expressing how difficult they found it to believe.

CHAPTER V

MR. NIBBS had the solution of the mystery.

When, at the first moment that offered, he went down to the Waterloo Bridge Road, Dicky found it all made clear. ‘I he man who had bought his first picture had bought some of his wood engravings, had spoken to Mr. Nibbs, revealing his interest, had learnt from Mr. Nibbs how Dicky was struggling to convert a mangle into a printing press, was none other than his friend in the train who had come up with him from Evesham to London that morning when he ran away from the Mill.

Chance had brought him to see that first picture of Dicky’s in Mr. Nibbs’ window, and since then he had followed his development, visiting the little print-seller’s shop two or three times a year, to learn what progress he was making. When, for the sake of the story, impelled by no ulterior motive, Mr. Nibbs had told him of Dick’s struggling to make a mangle into a printing press to develop the study of his wood engravings, the stranger had nodded his head and remarked:

“If he ever succeeds in getting it to print, it’ll be a washed-out business at the best.”

And that had pleased Mr. Nibbs so much that he had chuckled over it again and again. It was what he expected of the exper’ment himself, only he had never put it as neatly as that. He had even suspected nothing at the time, when the stranger casually enquired the cost of printing presses and where such machines were to be bought. Now, with Dicky’s information, he understood it all and remembered many things besides that had been said.

But who was the man? Long before this Dicky had lost the visiting card which he had given him at the station when they had arrived in London. He did not even remember his name.

“Well, the first print I do off that machine,” said he, “I leave here, and when he comes again you’re to give it to him.”

In six weeks’ time the first print was ready. In triumph Dicky brought it to Mr. Nibbs. There was good excuse for his pride. Inspiration and the impetus which the possession of that frowning mass of machinery had brought him had led to the most arresting piece of work he had yet done. He was his own block-maker and his own printer now. The finest etcher in England, the greatest wood-engraver in the world was no more than that. The room on the top floor of number twelve was no longer called the sitting room, but the printing room. Insisting against all his well-meaning but only gentle protests, Constance gave up the whole of the space to him, to his slabs for inking, the lines upon which he hung his prints to dry.

“I don’t think the room looks really bad,” he had said when every stick of furniture had been cleared out and sold to pay the rent and purchase inks for him. “I mean, it looks workmanlike, doesn’t it?”

It was a place like heaven to him, but, catching an expression in her eyes as she looked at it too, a moment of remorse smote him, tingled hot in his cheeks. The next moment his arms were round her and he was swearing he would hire a room that she should have her home just as she liked it best, calling himself a selfish beast and her the most generous soul in all the world.

“No,” said she gently, “we won’t change it. I like it really—it’s like you say, it looks like work, and that’s everything to you, Dicky, ain’t it?”

It hung in his mind that he had heard that question before, and, in his pause to answer, she had read the deeper truth. Yet his arms were still about her neck, his voice still murmuring that she was more to him than anything beside, and that was sweet enough, however much she knew it was untrue.

“Let’s look at the print again, Dicky,” said she, and together they stood in front of the first engraving the press had given him. was the interior of Sardinia Street Chapel, the old chapel as it stood then, the red lamp hanging before the altar, the unlighted candles, pale spikes pointing into the darkness, and that dim bloom of mystery which is the atmosphere of every church of Rome. Almost the odour of incense, long burnt, reached you as you looked at it, for no man has there been to touch that power of his, that quality of catching mystery in suspense and arresting it before your eyes.

She knew no more why it made her think of her child than he could have supposed the thought. Yet a lump pressed in her throat as she wondered whether it would suffer in life from the disadvantages of its birth.

“How do you like it?” said Dicky.

“I think it’s wonderful,” said she, but had really meant her child.

It was when he returned that evening, elated with the praise of Mr. Nibbs, that Constance knew the moment had arrived when concealment of her secret was no longer possible. Many times at their meal in the little restaurant of Soho she tried to begin. But, if it had been difficult with Mrs. Baldwin, it was almost impossible with him.

That he would be kind she knew; she knew he would be tender. He might even be glad. But was the temptation to marry him to be thrown before her again? And, if it were, how, for the child’s sake, could she resist it?

At last she found courage; arrived at that moment of impulse when the first words are said and no subterfuge or evasion can recall them. It was not at their meal in the restaurant. Courage had been wanting there and the lights were bright. People were there to see their faces. It was not even afterwards, when they returned home. He began at once preparing his coloured inks for a fresh print of the chapel engraving. But late that night, when they had gone to bed, when the candle had been extinguished and she lay there, still with her thoughts in the darkness, the words slipped suddenly from her lips before almost she was aware that her mind had been made up to say them.

“Dicky,” she whispered, “what should we do if we had a baby?”

He lay as still as she before he answered. In a sudden the inevitability of life had made itself clear to him. Never had he considered it before. It was as when, waking in the middle of the night, when life is at its lowest ebb, your thoughts turn of a sudden to the idea of death and you know that your day must come, defy it as you will. With the daylight the thought is gone. Only at times does it come back to you. And now, defy it as he might, Dicky knew that he was against that law of life which is as irrevocable as the certainty of death. I here was no need for her to say any more than that. In the tone of her voice, in the stillness of her body close to his, he knew all that she had to say.

“How long have you known?” he whispered back.

“Nearly three months,” said she.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You were working—I didn’t want to worry you. We owed a lot of money then and you were trying to make the printing press.”

He lay still with his thoughts again, then slowly took her in his arms.

“Do you never think of yourself at all?” he asked. “Are you always thinking of me and my work first?”

“It means such a lot to you, Dicky,” she replied. “I know how much it means.”

“Yes, but not compared—with this.”

Though no accusation had been meant by her, his conscience troubled him. He had come to that moment when every man must feel his own inferiority, the helplessness of his creative power to uncreate what once he has created.

“You wonderful thing,” he said at last, finding the greater power in her and gazing with his own amazed at it. “You wonderful thing,” he repeated, kissing her forehead and her cheeks while she lay there in his arms, warm in the happy pride of herself, that pride which so many men have made a woman feel were shame.

They lay together thus through long moments of silence, thinking—he his man’s thoughts, she her woman’s, so far divided by their separate natures, so much alike in their souls.

“If it’s a boy,” he said at last. “You dear thing, if it’s a boy.”

“Another Dicky,” she whispered, “another you.”

“He can be better than me,” said Dicky.

“Never in all the world,” she told him, and freed the arm on which she was lying, to wind it round his neck.

Then they began the building of those castles n the air of which life’s children are such cunning architects. Palace upon palace they had made, towering into a sky that was always blue, in which the sun was ever brilliant.

“But you realise one thing, don’t you?” said he at last.

She held her breath.

“We’re going to be married at once.”

Insensibly he felt the relaxation of her arm about his neck.

Even for the sake of their child, that was a thing she had sworn that she would never do.

“We’re going to be married,” he repeated, and in that quietness of his voice she knew there was no escape.

CHAPTER VI

WHEN Mrs. Baldwin heard of it, her statement that Dicky was just the gentleman she expected he would be was full of a joyous hilarity. Her very attitude, hands on the hips and head nodding, was the clear emphasis of victory.

“I ain’t what you call squeamish about them things,” she said. “I don’t see no difference between weddin’ lines and no weddin’ lines myself; it don’t keep people together if they don’t want to be kep’.” And all this was the cry of the urchin, king of his mud castle, whom none could dislodge. As if conscious of the boast of it, she added that she preferred the wedding lines of the two. “It do give a sort of air about it,” she said. “Nobody can’t say nothin’ to yer, and when the clergyman comes around you feel you’re as good as what ’e is.”

“It’s no question of whether ’e’s a gentleman or not,” replied Constance. “ ’Twas I said we wouldn’t be married, and we wouldn’t be married now, neither, only ’e ’as the right to make me. It’s ’is child as well as mine.”

Mrs. Baldwin declared that she did not believe such stuff.

“I never saw nothin’ against your marryin’ ’im from the first.”

“You never would, mother,” said Constance; “you never will, not even when ’e’s a great man, and I’m makin’ a blitherin’ idiot of meself at ‘is dinner table when ’e’s got a lord this and lady that to dine with ’im.”

Mrs. Baldwin pooh-poohed such possibilities.

“ ’E’s only an artist,” said she. “ ’E only paints.”

“Yes, you’re thinkin’ of the men ‘oo come in for six-penn’orth o’ white lead and a ‘alf-pint of oil. You don’t know what an artist is. You wait till ’e’s finished the portrait ’e’s doin’ of me, then you’ll see.”

They were married in secret in the little registry office in Henrietta Street, setting off from the r rooms in Great Queen Street, where, like a pair of children, they had slept together the night before.

“There,” said Dicky when they came out, “nobody can take you from me now,” and into her hand, ready to take his, he slipped a little parcel, something he had hurried out to buy that morning. She could not wait till she got back to open it. In a quiet corner of Covent Garden market she pulled the paper wrapping from off the box, opened the lid, and disclosed a bracelet, rolled gold, something that cost him ten and six and was worth a thousand pounds to her.

“Dicky!” she whispered.

“Mrs. Furlong,” said he, at which her cheeks lit up to sudden crimson.

They had a honeymoon that day, dinner in Soho and a box presented to them at the Middlesex music hall. She applauded everyone who came onto the stage.

“Oh, the difference it makes,” said she, revealing all her generosity. “To get up there be’ind those bloomin’ lights—oughtn’t I to say bloomin’, Dicky?”

“Doesn’t matter, my dear,” said he.

“Well, you don’t know what it’s like to ’ear just a ’and or two and all the rest talkin’ while you sing the ’eart out of yourself, and when you come off to see the next turn ready to go on, just as ’opeful as what you’ve been yerself. When they don’t take any notice of yer in the ’ouse, it’s like bein’ ’it on the face with somethin’ that only ’urts your pride.”

“Yes, but I’d make ’em take notice,” said Dicky.

“Ah, you would,” she replied, “but then you’re different. You’ve got brains. Most of these ‘ave only got ’ands and feet. Wonder when I shall be doin’ it again.”

He took her hand gently, as though she had all the fragility of a child.

“Not till afterwards,” he whispered; “p’r’aps not even then. You’ll have to take terrible care of yourself.”

Indeed, he took the greatest care of her himself. Every word of it was true when she had said that he would worry over it as much as if he were going to have the child himself. Time and again she found his eyes watching her, when she was conscious of those moments through which a woman sits caught in the dream of contemplation.

“Would you be too tired to sit like that for a bit?” he said suddenly one day, arresting her mood, seeing, with the full comprehension of his imagination, that it was a moment in the lives of all women; believing, with that undaunted ambition of his, that he could carry it to his canvas and make the world see all women as he saw her then.

She shook her head. She knew that note in his voice, when a sudden vitality overstrung it like a fiddle string.

“Goin’ on with the portrait?” she asked.

He went for canvas, charcoal and easel, shading his head.

“Not going to do the portrait now,” said he; “going to do this instead. There’s more than a portrait in this.”

She guessed how much more there was and smiled at him and smiled at the thought of her child.

“Try and forget you’re sitting for anything,” said he. “Just go on, dream away, think of what you were thinking then. Forget all about me.”

. But in half an hour she was tired. Then, out of the corner of her eyes, she snatched a glance at him. i he fire of it was still blazing in his face. lie was running backwards and forwards to his canvas; at last had thrown his charcoal away on the floor and was mixing paints on his knees by the side of his palette, mixing them as though a moment lost were a lifetime. She could not bring herself to disturb him then and still sat on till an hour had struck.

Then suddenly he saw the pinched look in her cheeks and threw his brushes down, cursing himself for a thoughtless fool; running downstairs to fetch her brandy, tending to her with all the gentleness of a woman.

It was not until the colour had come back into her cheeks and she had asked herself how he had done that he thought of speaking of his work. Then he flew off into a torrent of enthusiasms; turned the canvas for her to see and showed her all that he was going to do.

“The contemplation of maternity,” he said he was going to call it. Indeed, in the rough ground work which he had done in that first hour, she could feel her own thoughts in the simple pose of the figure before her. From the canvas she looked up at him in admiring bewilderment.

“ ’Ow did yer know that was what I was thinkin’, Dicky?” she asked.

He shook his head. His thoughts were too nearly with his work to answer such a question as that. But she went on, not waiting for his reply.

“I think you’re very wonderful, Dicky,” she said simply. “Yer seem to know such a lot about the insides of people—know what they think, I mean. Fancy paintin’ thoughts, fancy paintin’ thoughts like them. D’yer think everybody’ll see what it means?”

“They’ve got to,” said he. “I’ll make ’em.”

The next sitting she gave him he could do nothing. All the time he was fearing her fatigue. The fear got into his hands. His brushes would not work for him. At last he put his palette down.

“It’s not a bit of good, my dear; won’t come. Something’s wrong. I suppose.” But he would not tell her what it was, and went out, walking up and down the street outside, telling himself that no work of his was as great as the moments through which she was about to pass, forcing himself to the belief that all he said was true.

And she, half-divining what had been his hindrance, suggested herself the next day that he should work again. This gave him confidence. “She doesn’t feel so tired to-day,” he told himself, and mixed his paints with the old energy, setting to work without a thought of her.

Then expression came upon the canvas as if by magic. Brush stroke after brush stroke fell, inspired with the vigour of his imagination. The pinched look came into her cheeks and he saw none of it. Glance after glance she shot at him in hope to catch his eye. And then the room grew misty.

She saw him, still in all his energy, working away, but so far, so far off. At last, with a little sigh, her head fell limply and all the room and all the sight of him was blackened out to nothingness.

CHAPTER VII

WITH that anxiety of expression which Constance had come to know arose out of his tenderness for her, Dicky spoke of West End doctors, the best that could be procured. This was as the days drew on and the “Contemplation of Maternity” had long been finished.

She laughed at his fears, asking if he thought she were the first woman who had ever brought a child into the world.

“I shall send you away till it’s over,” she declared, “if you’re goin’ to worry about it.”

“You’re such a kid,” said he.

“All the better for me,” said she. “I’m twenty. Girl of fifteen had a baby in Peabody Buildin’s the other day. How were you goin’ to pay for the West Find doctor, Dicky?”

He shook his head and she laughed at him again. He talked about kids! She looked at him as in a few months she would be looking at her child.

Doctor O’Shea she would have, with his dispensary in Drury Lane—the little Irish physician living amongst the slum population of London, amidst the filth and the squalor of it, cheerfully holding to his ideals, to his saints and his Virgin of Immaculate Conception, with sin and shame and horror all round him, yet still believing in beauty as a real thing of life; hard put to it even to deny its fairies.

He began his casual visiting at number twelve, visits that grew more frequent as time drew on. He had known Constance from a child; was well aware of the lawlessness of her type and would have been neither surprised nor shocked had he heard they were not married.

He had his ideas about pictures, and, as often as not, it was that wild young fella he came to see when he sat listening for an hour to Dicky’s-unorthodox views upon art. Such ideas as he had himself he had gathered together in the town of Cork, where for a time he had been a student at the art schools before he went to Queen’s College to take up medicine. And to these ideas as to his ideals he clung. Nothing could shake him from them. In those days he was an encouraging influence to Dicky, who learnt much of himself in his heated arguments against the little doctor.

“Me fine bhoy,” said he at the conclusion of all these discussions, “ye can’t paint a thing what hasn’t got a shape to ut. If ye want to paint holiness, ye must paint the Pope or the Blessed Virgin, and then shure ’twill be his Holiness yeer paintin’ and not yeer own idea av ut at all.”

“Do you mean to say you don’t see anything sacred in the world except the things that are labelled?”

“I do indeed. I see things sacred in Drury Lane and ’tis no easy job for a man to be doin’ that, without he’s the worse for drink and there’s a halo over his own tumble-down bed in his own tumble-down attic.”

“Well, if you see it”—and Dicky was shouting by this—“it’s there, and if it’s there it’s got some sort of shape to it.”

“It has indeed, but it ‘ud take ye at yeer cutest to put a measure round the thing and tell me the size av ut, and shure if ’tis no size at all ’tis no shape at all. Now, mind ye, yeer a very claver young fella”—with which he bestowed a wink upon Constance to make salutary his praise of Dicky— “and ye can take a tip from me now, for I’m an old man, though not as old as I look.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Paint the things ye know something about. Ye won’t know anything about holiness till ye become a good Catholic—which is a pity for ye because I don’t believe ye’ll ever be anything at all. But if ye ever do become a good Catholic, then ye can paint a picture of the Blessed Virgin like them old fellas they call masters, and faith, if ’tis a good picture, ye’ll have got nearer to holiness than eyer ye did when ye sat down and painted the corner of a wood with a wee bit of trees and stuff and tried to tell me that the idea av ut was holiness.”

“Well, what effect does it produce on you?” demanded Dicky, as he turned the picture they were discussing to catch the most favourable light.

The little doctor looked at it steadily for the twentieth time.

“Well, d’ye want to know what it really makes me think of?” said he. “Not that it’s like the place, mind ye—’tis no more like the place than this might be the dining room at Dublin Castle—but it makes me think av ut. It makes me think av a place in the woods by Rochestown, outside Cork, where I courted a young giTl—not the one I’m married to, mind ye—but one of those girrls ye fall in love with when yecr too young to know any more about her than the colour of her eyes and a queer way she had that made ye feel funny at the time, of pronouncing her r’s as if they was w’s—perhaps the one girrl ye can never quite forget. There are times still, when I’m feelin’ good in meself, when I’ve said a good confession and I feel as if God was pattin’ me on the back for a good bhoy—there are times like that I think av her yet. And that picture of yours reminds me of the place in Rochestown woods where I kissed her. Now that’s the trooth, and that’s all yeer picture makes me think of.” Dicky’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. “And it’s not a bit like the place?” said he.

“Divil a bit.”

“Then it suggests something that has no shape or form or even colour. And I bet you what you like that, if you’d told us that story under any other circumstances than this argument, you’d have admitted that that was one of the holiest moments of your life.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, not admitting defeat, but incapable of defence.

“I’d like to see ye try yeer hand at a portrait,” srid he, “something that ye could measure, and if yeer measurement wasn’t right, shure ’twould be wrong and there’d be no argument about it at all.”

The reply to this was the “Contemplation of Maternity.” Dicky brought it out as you wouid put the ace on the king of trumps. Not a word was said while the doctor looked at it. Constance glanced at him and at Dicky. Dicky looked only at the picture. There is a characteristic mental attitude of the creator when he knows what he has done is good. The most inspired of histories remarks upon it. And it is the same mental attitude to-day.

“When did ye do this?” asked O’Shea.

“Why?”

“Well, it looks to me as if it had just been finished, and I don’t know that I’d have painted her meself when she was frettin’ about the child. Well, I wouldn’t like to call it frettin’—there’s no need to be frettin’. But, mind ye, if I’d never seen the original and that was just a portrait of a woman I didn’t know-”

“Yes—yes?” said Dicky.

“Well, I’d say she was thinkin’ about somethin’ pretty deeply and, being a doctor, I might have seen it was that.”

“Do you know what I’ve called it?” asked Dicky.

“Well, I suppose ye’ve called it Mrs. Richard Furlong—ye’ve got enough check on ye for six.”

“I’ve called it ‘The Contemplation of Maternity.’ ”

The little man reached for his hat and stood up.

“Ye’re a queer lad,” said he. “Ye always seem to have done the thing that people think ye have. I suppose ye called ut that the moment after what I said.”

At the foot of the stairs, as he opened the door into the street, the little doctor took his arm.

“Look after her,” said he; “let her take it aisy.”

“Don’t you think she’s getting on well, then?” Dicky was up with the note of apprehension at once.

O’Shea lifted his eyes in despair.

“Can’t I give ye the most ordinary piece av advice,” said he, “without yeer lepping to childish conclusions? Upon me soul, there ought to be a law forbiddir’ bhoys from marrying. I wouldn’t mind about the girrls. If ye were to put one av thim on a desert island tin thousand miles from a doctor, they’d make a fist av ut one way or another, they would so. Will ye just do as I’m tellin’ ye and let herself take ut aisy. D’ye think yeer the only man as ever had a child bi his wife? Ye are not. There’ll be four to-morrow mornin’ in Drury Lane who’ve had the sinse to get meself to look after them.”

He shut the door himself with a laugh, and Dicky faced the stairs alone.

Why had he heard that tone of anticipation in the doctor’s voice? Was it his Pagination? Was it the anticipation in himself? He wondered what he would do without Constance, where he would turn, whether his work would mean enough to him to make bearable the loss of her. Yet the doctor thought nothing of child-bearing. It was a common occurrence in his daily round. But then was net death almost as common as well, and did he regard that much more seriously than the other?

In a sudden panic of his thoughts, he hurried up the remaining stairs. Constance was sitting by the window. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them as he entered. He came quickly to her chair and knelt beside her.

“I should never find another like you. my dear,” he whispered.

“Always think that, my dear,” said she; “that’s all I want—and-”

“And what?”

Just the other little Dicky, that’s all.”

CHAPTER VIII

IT was a Saturday’s child, a Saturday that Dicky long remembered. While Doctor O’Shea was in the top-floor bedroom of number twelve, Dicky was pacing the pavement m the street below, his spirit spurred with imagination, suffering all the pains of childbirth, his body, numbed, wandering wherever his feet led him, conscious of no sensation.

In desperation he opened the door of the little tailor’s shop where, if you need livery for your footman, there are the patterns to hand; pictures, too, of gentlemen in frock coats and glittering hats, such as Great Queen Street knows of by repute In the West.

Mr. Wheedle greeted him with a cheerful countenance. This was the first sign of business he had had for three days. True, he was doing his own cutting out as Dicky entered. He came forward, snipping the large scissors in his hand—but that is not really business. Anyone can do that and go on doing it till the rent Is overdue. Only then does it become difficult, because cutting out cloth and snipping a tailor’s scissors do not really suggest a tailor’s business unless the rent is paid. Mr. Wheedle w as only suggesting.

“A new suit, sir?” said Mr. Wheedle. ‘‘Let me see, I haven’t made a suit for you for some time.”

“I didn’t want a suit, Mr. Wheedle,” said Dicky. “No?” said the little tailor, inferring that there were other things besides suits, and if it were in his power to make them he would. He snipped his scissors again, but knew that that was not very lucrative.

“I just—just came in for a chat,” said Dicky. Mr. Wheedle shut the scissors slowly. It was not as ‘f he had been asked to be paid for the last suit. Quite willingly he would have taken another order and set to work the very next day, chalking and cutting out and feeling as if things were really looking up a bit. Yet he smiled in all amiability and said he was very pleased, he was sure.

“It’s a nice day, sir,” he added, which, if it were only a chat that the young gentleman wanted, seemed the proper way to begin it.

“Yes—yes, it is,” replied Dicky, and looked out of the window, for the first time conscious of the day it was.

“Paintin’ goin’ along all right, sir?”

“Yes, very well.”

“Smelly job, sir, ain’t it?”

“You don’t notice it,” said Dicky.

“No, I suppose not—I suppose not. Though they say these painters as do housework—they suffer from it, sir, so I’ve heard. All quite well at home, sir?” His scissors had begun snipping again. No business was doing. lie had become reconciled to that. The disappointment was over, and it was as well to do something.

“My wife’s not well,” said Dicky sharply.

“Indeed, sir, I’m sorry to hear that. Influenza? They say there’s a lot of it about.”

“No, the doctor’s with her now. She’s—she’s having a baby.”

The little tailor laid his scissors down. Had Dicky only said that at first, Mr. Wheedle would have understood long ago. He remembered his own first child and the cut of the coat he had made that day it was born. A chat! Why, of course he didn’t want a new suit! He wouldn’t know how to choose the material if he did.

“She’s doin’ well, I ’ope, sir. Well, of course she >s—a fine young woman like that. I’ve ’eard ’er sing at the Middlesex, sir, over and over again, I ’ave. Great favourite she is there.”

“Yes, I think she’s strong,” said Dicky.

“Strong? Why, she’s made for a mother, sir.”

“Do you think so?”

“Well, you’ve only got to look at ’er,” said Mr. Wheedle. “But t’s a trying time—you get used to it, though. It’s the first one there’s all the fuss about.”

“I suppose if is—dangerous, isn’t it?”

Unfortunately, Mr. Wheedle received the impression that he was being referred to as an authority and, had it been the cut of a coat, he would have taken no less pleasure in being dogmatic about it. To be an authority upon anything makes the day pass as in the way of business.

“I wouldn’t say dangerous,” said he dubiously, at which Dicky shuddered. “My wife was very ill after her first child, very ill she was, but the second and third she was well enough, and the fifth—well, it didn’t worry her at all. She was up working about in the house a week afterwards.”

Dicky began to wish he had never come in to chat with Mr. Wheedle, much more that he had never told him what was happening at number twelve. What was the good of hearing that Airs. Wheedle was very well with the birth of her fifth child, if she was very ill with her first? In an effort to change the conversation, he thought of the suit that had never been paid for, and, feeling in his pocket, he brought out ten shillings.

“There’s a suit of mine owing for, isn’t there, Mr. Wheedle?” he said.

“Yes, sir, nothing to worry about, sir.” And. without loss of dignity, he tried to infer that, small a matter though it was, every little was a help in those hard times. The inference was successfully produced. Dicky laid the ten shillings down on the table.

“I’ll pay the rest,” said he, “as soon as I can,” and went quickly to the door.

“I’m sure I’m very much obliged, sir; I’ll send the receipt round this afternoon.”

In the street Dicky found Mrs. Baldwin, looking in every direction where he had promised he would be.

“It’s all over, Dicky,” said she breathlessly.

“My God!” he exclaimed.

“No, I mean—it’s all right—a boy.”

“How is she?”

“Very well—considerin’. Poor thing, she did have a time! She wants to see yer.”

Dicky crept upstairs, crept into the room, feeling it was a new world, since a new person was there whom he had never met before, a person he was shy of meeting now.

Constance turned on the pillows, and her smile was tired but full of welcome. He knelt down by the bedside and found her hand as Doctor O’Shea stole out of the room.

CHAPTER IX

IN every career, eventful towards success, there are sudden points of turning. For nearly five years Dicky had been in London, learning at the art schools, working at home, striving for recognition. and earning only that of Mr. Nibbs.

“I’m not a bit o’ good to you, my boy,’’ the little print-seller had frequently said. “I’m only whatcher might call an incident. I can’t sell yer pictures for yer. Roll-top desks and second-’and carpets are the things you buy in the Waterloo Bridge Road, not stuff like yours. But you’ll remember me, as time goes on. P’raps you’d never ’ave taken to yer wood engravin’s if it ’adn’t been for me touchin’ up Diir-er’s prints down at Greenwich. That gentleman, whoever ’e is, what sent yer the printin’ press, ’e knows what yer worth. So do I. You’ll remember that about me, too. I was the first to know what you was worth. Those wood-blocks yer doin’ now— d’yer know what they’re worth?”

Dicky shook his head.

More than two guineas, I should think,” said he. More than two guineas I They’re worth five in Bond Street. But they don’t understand ’em yet.

I shouldn’t understand ’em myself, if it ’adn’t been for yer working at ’em alongside of me, so to speak; I knowin’ just what you was up to. D’yer remember ’ow we laughed at yer the first time yer said yer was goin’ to do a coloured wood-block? I thought it was all nonsense, never ’aving seen a coloured wood-block before. But you go on, yer know, and you’ll get things as good as paintin’s.”

“I’ve just invented a new instrument,” said Dicky. “I didn’t tell you about that. You know the Sardinia Street Chapel print?”

Mr. Nibbs nodded.

“Well, you know the bit of light through the coloured window, the way it scintillates—looks ah as if it was shaking—just like particles of dust do in a ray of sunlight that’s falling into a room?”

Mr. Nibbs nodded again. It was all that was required of him.

“I’ve invented an instrument for getting that effect,” said Dicky. “A little sort of wire toothbrush —well, they’re different sizes, some are quite big— and I scrub the surface with it. It makes t all rough and that does it. I’d thought for a long time that some of my high lights were too flat. In sunlight particularly there’s always movement—must be —all those microscopic whirlings must make movement—then I thought of this brush business. I can tell you I was excited when I saw the first one come out. I don’t know if anyone’s ever thought of that before, getting that quiver in sunlight.”

Mr. Nibbs’ mouth was open as he looked at Dicky. To think of trying to paint the gyrations of dust in a sunbeam! And to succeed! It sounded like a trick of magic to him. He had noticed the light through those windows in the chapel engraving. Casually he had thought how good it was, and casually had believed t to be a piece of luck in the printing. And then to hear how Dicky had invented an instrument solely and consciously to produce that effect! It betrayed a type of mind which he knew his own was too poorly equipped to grasp.

“They’ll get ’old of yer name one of these days,” said he. “Richard Furlong—it’s a good name to ‘ang ’old of. Then you’ll find ’em cornin’ round.”

Then came the point of turning for which Dicky had waited, the point of turning which came the very day after Constance had brought the other little Dicky into the world. From a Bond Street dealer with whom he had left a print of the chapel for exhibition, he received a letter requesting that he would go and see him at once.

At any other time such a request would have filled him with anticipation and excitement. Now he read it and put it away in his pocket. Constance was ill. In his ignorance he had thought that, once the child was born, all danger was passed. Yet from that moment she had steadily declined. Every morning Doctor O’Shea came to number twelve, and every morning, as he waited in the printing room, Dicky saw that grave expression which the little Irishman could not keep from his face as he closed the bedroom door.

Then a second and more determined request came from the picture dealer Dicky showed it to O’Shea.

“I wouldn’t go just yet,” said he. “Don’t leave her. ’Tis no good hiding it from ye, she’s on the very edge. Don’t leave her a minute. She may pull through, mind ye. She’s a strong girrl, and there’s every wanting in her to live, and that’s a good thing. People don’t die as a rule if they don’t want to.” He laid his hand on Dicky’s shoulder. “But ye must bear up yeerself,” said he. “Don’t let her see the long face on ye or she’ll think there’s no chance for her.”

“Does she know, then?” asked Dicky in a breath.

“She does not,” said he; “but ‘tis the way with women that—’tis no good telling ’em a ue. They see through ye, and over a serious matter like this ye don’t like tollin’ ’em the trooth—shure thfey might believe it. Cheer her up now. Tell her all ye’ll be doin’ with the baby, the two av ye, whin she’s well i^gain. It’ll put the heart into her.”

With such good counsel, he left him. Dicky walked to the window and stood looking down into the street below. All the words that Madame Marco had once said came back with their full meaning to him then. How could he continue in those rooms alone if Constance left him? A cry from the child in the bedroom made him shudder. He dared not think of it then. It was her he wanted. She fulfilled some function in his life without which his work fell pitiably from its preeminence.

He wondered was it the fact of loving, the condition of mind which it induced, that gave all the energy to his imagination. For why was it that with Constance dead he could think of no future worth the having? Yet it was not her mind that supplied him with ideas or stimulated him to the vigour of his ambition. She had the mind of a child, she had no mind at all, only a heart with which to give, generously and unceasingly. Indeed, he returned her little in kind. Yet he had often noticed how, the more she expressed her love, the readier he was to throw himself into his work.

Was that the bargain? Was that the exchange? Then she would lose but little except her child. And all the people in the street passed casually by while he was thinking how he would lose all.

It was an unfair transaction, yet it was all she had ever asked. By some strange divination she seemed to know that all the expression of his love for her was given, not to herself, but to the energy in his work. A little look, a pressure of the hand, a gentle word here and there, and she had been completely satisfied. That was the wonderful thing in her. She gave everything and knew all that her giving meant.

So he stood there, leaning against the window-frame and looking down into the street, seeing nothing. calling his conscience into the speculation upon that problem of men and women which no man will ever be capable of solving and no woman would really care to have solved.

With a shrug of deprecation, he turned from the window at last. It was all of it impossible to understand. Was t giving a stone in a woman’s demand for bread, when a. man threw all the vitality of his life into his work? Were he a woman, he knew what his answer would be; yes, a thousand times. For what really was h,s work to Constance? Only a pleasure to her when it pleased him. No more than that. As work that was accomplished, as difficulties overcome, how could she care for one of the pictures he painted or one of the wood-blocks he made? She wanted love from him, and he gave her these. Now he knew he needed love from her, and with both hands, perhaps with her life, she was giving it. Where was the justice in that? He knew there was none.

But he had learnt a lesson. Her love was a vital thing to him, a stimulant to the force of life that urged him on. This illness of hers had taught him much. When she got well again, he would give her the stimulus of his love as well. The giving should not all be from her, and with this thought lifting him to determination, he knocked gently on the door of their room and went inside.

She was lying back on the pillows, but her eyes were watching the door. The moment she saw it was Dicky, the lassitude of fatigue left her face. Mrs. Baldwin, who w as nursing her, rose from her chair and crept into the other room.

Constance stretched out her hand and Dicky came to it, binding the fingers about his, pressing them to his lips and kissing them.

“What did he say?’’ she asked.

Dicky brought his lips to a smile.

“Oh, you’ll be well again very soon now,” said he. “You mean to get well—that’s the great thing.” “Yes, I mean to,” said she. “I’ve got ‘im to look after, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you dear thing, but you must think of yourself first of all. He’s all right. It’s you now, you before everyone, before everything.”

“Not your work, Dicky; you mustn’t stop working. ’Ave you begun the new wood block yet?”

He shook his head. All the document he had collected for his engraving of St. Paul’s across the roof-tops he had laid aside.

“I can’t do anything now,” said he. “Well, I won’t. I’m going to look after you.”

“I’d sooner you worked, Dicky—it means such a lot to you. You know if you miss only a day you’ll feei as ashamed of yourself as if you’d done nothing for a month.”

He smiled at her observation of that It was quite true. Conscience was smiting him even then.

“Oh. a rest’ll do me good!” he exclaimed. “I shall have tons of work to do soon. Directly you get better, I’m going to see a dealer in Bond Street. He’s written to me twice.”

“Well, then, don’t wait,” she begged him. “Go to-day, go this afternoon.”

He shook his head with decision.

“No, I’ll go-to-morrow perhaps. We’ll wait and see how you are.”

She seemed better the next day. The colour was coming back into her cheeks. The doctor was as critical as ever, but he admitted to Dicky afterwards that he thought she had taken a turn towards recovery.

“But don’t ye rely on ut yet,” said he. “She’s-been as near the edge as she could go. Maybe .n a week she ’ll be as lively as ever, ye can never tell.”

When he had shown her the two letters from the dealer, Constance implored Dicky to go that afternoon.

“I know I’m much better, I can feel it,” she declared; and at last, to the importunity of her persuasions, he went.

In an hour he was back again, his face radiant, his eyes brilliant with excitement. She knew the moment he entered the room how good his news must be, and, despite all Mrs. Baldwin’s efforts to dissuade her, sat up in bed to hear what it was.

“Oh, I’m made l” said Dicky in a breath. “I’m made! Nothing ’ll stop me now but myself. As soon as ever you’re well, you dear thing, we’ll go and live in the country. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to now. You and I in the country. There’s no need for me to stop ‘n London now. They’re going to buy my wood-blocks as I do ’em. Fifty pounds for every edition—twenty copies, and then I destroy the block. No binding me to ’em. I can do just as many and just as few as I like, and I’m free to sell any other work I like anywhere I please, but they’ll always take my paintings and exhibit them in their galleries. Twenty-five per cent they charge, but they’ll get me prices I couldn’t have got anywhere else—twenty and thirty pounds, mind you! I took them that little oil painting of Covent Garden, and he told me he could easily sell that for fifteen gumeas— fifteen guineas! That’s fifteen bob as well as the pounds! You can do what you like with the fifteen bob. But of course I don’t get all of that.”

He stopped for breath, and her eyes were dancing, for she knew there was more to tell.

“Yes—yes,” she said. “Go on.”

“You’re quite right, that isn’t all,” said he. “There’s been a man over in England, buying wood engravings, representative English wood engravings for the French Government—for their gallery in Paris—something or other—I forget the name of it. And he saw mine, and he’s bought it, paid ten guineas for it—ten guineas from the French Government! God bless the French! They’ll buy ’em here one of these days. But think of it—a picture of mine belonging to a whole nation! It’s fine, I can tell you, fine! fine!”

He seized her hand and kissed it again and again, then at the sound of her voice, a sudden sound that took his head and lifted it in a moment, he looked up to find her eyes were filled with a panic of questions—all the questions of her life were there, crying out, frightened to him, for answer.

“Constance!” he cried.

“’Ave I?” said she. and her voice came out to him from another world. Her head fell suddenly, as suddenly the other world had taken her. He caught her as she dropped into his arms. He knew it was death. Sudden and bewilderingly, unexpected as it was, something told him it was death, and fear and agony and dismay brought out of him a cry to God, then crumpled him up beside her.

So much as this was the cost of his achievement.

THE END