ed towards the window. The
dock was empty and desolate: the rain, which had prevailed with a
persistent dreariness since the morning, built morasses at regular
intervals along the dock-side, splashed unceasingly into the
stagnant green water which collected in slack seasons within the
dock-gates. The dockman stood, one disconsolate figure in the
general blankness, with his high boots and oilskins, smoking a short
clay pipe by the door of the engine-room; and further out, under the
dripping dome of an umbrella, sat Oswyn in a great pea-jacket,
smoking, painting the mist, the rain, the white river with its few
blurred barges and its background of dreary warehouses, in a supreme
disregard of the dank discomfort of his surroundings.

Rainham had tapped three times against the streaming pane before he
succeeded in attracting his attention, and then the painter only
responded to the wonted signal by an impatient, deprecating flourish
of the hand which held the palette. The tea was already simmering on
the rickety table in the bow-window, when Oswyn, staggering under
his impedimenta, climbed the staircase, and shouldered his way
familiarly into the room.

"How fearfully wet you must be!" said his host lazily from the
depths of an arm-chair. "Help yourself to a pair of slippers and a
dry coat, and have some tea. It's strong enough even for you by this
time."

The other had disembarrassed himself of his dripping jacket and
overalls, and now kicked off his shoes, with a short laugh. He was
never a great talker in the daytime, and the dreary charm of the
river world outside was still upon him. He dropped the sketch upon
which he had been working rather contemptuously against the wall,
where Rainham could see it, and selected a pair of slippers from
quite a small heap in the corner by the fireplace.

"I don't mind _your_ seeing my work, because you don't talk about it,"
he said, glancing at Rainham quickly. "I hate people who try to say
complimentary things; they don't often mean them, and when they do
they talk absolute rot."

"Yes," said the other sympathetically. "Shall I put a slice of lemon
in your tea? I suppose I must live up to my reputation and say
nothing about your sketch. But I must have it when it's finished!
It's always most embarrassing to have to pay personal compliments,
though I suppose some people like them."

The painter grunted inarticulately between two sips of tea.

"Like them! Don't your society ar