"We have been there three times," she objected, "and I do so dislike
that dismal, dreary old house. I don't wonder that bright, clever Mrs.
Carlyle was moped to death there."

"Hush, you little heretic," returned Malcolm good-humouredly. "To me
No. 5 Cheyne Row is a shrine of suffering, struggling genius. When I
stand in that bare, sound-proof room and think of the work done there
by that tormented, dyspeptic man with such infinite labour, with sweat
of brow and anguish of heart, I feel as though I must bare my head even
to his majestic memory." Malcolm had mounted his favourite hobby-horse,
but Anna listened to him rebelliously. They had been over this ground
before, and she had always taken Mrs. Carlyle's part. "Think of a
handsome, brilliant little creature like Jane Welsh," she would say
indignantly, "thrown away on a learned, heavy peasant, as rugged and
ungainly as that 'Hill of the Hawk,' that Craigen-puttoch, where he
buried her alive. Oh, no wonder she became a neurotic invalid, shut up
from week's end to week's end with a dyspeptic, irritable scholar in an
old dressing-gown." Indeed, it must be owned, in spite of all Malcolm's
eloquence, Anna was singularly perverse on this subject, and absolutely
refused to burn incense to his hero.

As Anna must have her way on her birthday, Malcolm said no more, and
the next moment they arrived at their destination--a gray,
dingy-looking old house, somewhat high and narrow, overlooking the
river.

The first floor windows opened on a balcony, which had an awning over
it. Two or three deck-chairs had been placed there, and on summer
evenings Malcolm loved to sit there, either alone or with a congenial
spirit, enjoying the refreshing breezes from the river.

The house belonged to his friend Amias Keston, and some years before he
had built himself a studio in the back garden. As his income was
remarkably small, and his work at that time far from remunerative, he
was obliged to let the upper floor. The situation charmed Malcolm, and
the society of his old friend was a strong inducement, so they soon
came to terms. Malcolm was an ideal lodger; he gave little trouble,
beyond having his bath filled and his boots well polished. He
breakfasted in his own apartment, but he always dined with the Kestons.
A solitary chop eaten in solitude was not to his taste, and he much
preferred sharing his friends' homely meals. "Plain living and high
thinking suit me down to the ground," he