tlefolk was exhausted. I made for the
turnstiles, and nodded to Spry to get quit of him.

"I'm off," I said, curtly, "to look up Wray and offer my
congratulations."

* * * * *

Green Park, bedecked in spring raiment, seemed to me at that moment a
welcome oasis of verdure in the midst of the swirl of Piccadilly; it
offered no impediment to the bubbling flood of conjecture that Wray's
strange _chef d'oeuvre_ had let loose.

So far as I knew him--and our friendship, though spasmodic by reason of
my wanderings, had existed since our teens--he was the last man to sneak
voluntarily into the shadowy niches of life; his nature clung to
radiance and his sentiment revolted at the opacity of pessimism. Why,
then, this sudden hectic of the sensational? Why, indeed, unless the
genius, the loganstone, as suggested by the fellow in the exhibition,
had rocked till it tilted?

In the midst of my mental tussle, while twisting the pros and cons in
favour of lunacy, and walking with bent head and irresponsible stride, I
fell foul of an obstacle. It was Lawrence Vane, the poet, who, being
well known to me, chose this mode of salute.

"Your _moutons_ are causing you trouble," he laughed. "Debts?--love
affairs?"

"I have neither," I replied, without a vestige of humour.

He was a breezy fellow, good tempered and sound, but at the moment he
was out of place. Despite my abruptness he wheeled round and kept pace
with me.

"You were totting up your virtues then?" he pursued.

"I can do that on my fingers. It was Wray's vagaries that puzzled me. I
am on my way to him."

His cheery mood vanished.

"Don't go near him," he burst out. "He is a beast; I loathe him."

"He is my friend." (This with an accent on the last word.)

"I expected that. They were my friends once, but I never go there now."

"They?" I inquired. I had forgotten the report of Wray's marriage, five
years before. It had taken place in Rome on the eve of my departure from
England.

"He and his wife. You met her? No? She was the sweetest girl that ever
stept."

"Was?" I exclaimed. "Is she dead?"

"Dead to us, to society, to happiness. She left her husband within the
year."

"Poor fellow!"

It was well to have met Lawrence before going to Wray's studio--awkward
situations might have ensued. I delved for more of the domestic history.

"She was the prey of mischief-makers--there were so many who envied her.
People whispered cruel