Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own command, ****, advancing, said 'Halloo!' after the manner of schoolboys, and Maisie answered, 'Oh, ****, is that you?' Then, against his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of ****'s body throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie's face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but **** fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then ****, a little hoarsely--'What has happened to Amomma?'
'He died, ****. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. Isn't it funny?'
'Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?'
'Ye--es. No. This. Where have you come from?'
'Over there,' He pointed eastward through the fog. 'And you?'
'Oh, I'm in the north,--the black north, across all the Park. I am very busy.'
'What do you do?'
'I paint a great deal. That's all I have to do.'
'Why, what's happened? You had three hundred a year.'
'I have that still. I am painting; that's all.'
'Are you alone, then?'
'There's a girl living with me. Don't walk so fast, ****; you're out of step.'
'Then you noticed it too?'
'Of course I did. You're always out of step.'
'So I am. I'm sorry. You went on with the painting?'
'Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton's in St.
John's Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted,--I mean I went to the National,--and now I'm working under Kami.'
'But Kami is in Paris surely?'
'No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I'm a householder.'
'Do you sell much?'
'Now and again, but not often. There is my 'bus. I must take it or lose half an hour. Good-bye, ****.'
'Good-bye, Maisie. Won't you tell me where you live? I must see you again; and perhaps I could help you. I--I paint a little myself.'
'I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there is no working light. I walk from the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion. But of course I shall see you again.' She stepped into the omnibus and was swallowed up by the fog.
'Well--I--am--damned!' exclaimed ****, and returned to the chambers.
Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the stgudio door, repeating the phrase with an awful gravity.
'You'll be more damned when I'm done with you,' said the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow's shoulder and waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. '****, it is of common report that you are suffering from swelled head.'
'Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.'
'Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow refuses from false delicacy. I've been overhauling the pot-boilers in your studio. They are simply disgraceful.'
'Oho! that's it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you're wrong. You can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I'm going to bed.'
'H'm! h'm! h'm! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here's the peroration: "For work done without conviction, for power wasted on trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public----"'That's "His Last Shot," second edition. Go on.'
'----"public, there remains but one end,--the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of danger.'
'Wow--wow--wow--wow--wow!' said ****, profanely. 'It's a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,'--he sprang to his feet and snatched at the manuscript,--'you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents. You're a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen. You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self. And you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd caricature you in four papers!'
The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this.
'As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small--so!' The manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. 'Go home, Nilghai,' said ****; 'go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till to-morrow.'
'Why, it isn't seven yet!' said Torpenhow, with amazement.
'It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,' said ****, backing to the studio door. 'I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan't want any dinner.'
The door shut and was locked.
'What can you do with a man like that?' said the Nilghai.
'Leave him alone. He's as mad as a hatter.'
At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. 'Is the Nilghai with you still?' said a voice from within. 'Then tell him he might have condensed the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an epigram: "Only the free are bond, and only the bond are free." Tell him he's an idiot, Torp, and tell him I'm another.'
'All right. Come out and have supper. You're smoking on an empty stomach.'
There was no answer.
