lia
began to flame on the canvas, in the likeness of a woman who had known
all the sorrow in the world and was laughing at it. It was true that the
corners of the studio draped themselves in gray film and retired into
the darkness, that the spots in his eyes and the pains across his head
were very troublesome, and that Maisie's letters were hard to read and
harder still to answer. He could not tell her of his trouble, and he
could not laugh at her accounts of her own Melancolia which was always
going to be finished. But the furious days of toil and the nights of
wild dreams made amends for all, and the sideboard was his best friend
on earth.

Bessie was singularly dull. She used to shriek with rage when Dick
stared at her between half-closed eyes. Now she sulked, or watched him
with disgust, saying very little.

Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. An incoherent note heralded his
return. 'News! great news!' he wrote. 'The Nilghai knows, and so
does the Keneu. We're all back on Thursday. Get lunch and clean your
accoutrements.'

Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she abused him for that he had ever
sent Torpenhow away and ruined her life.

'Well,' said Dick, brutally, 'you're better as you are, instead of
making love to some drunken beast in the street.' He felt that he had
rescued Torpenhow from great temptation.

'I don't know if that's any worse than sitting to a drunken beast in a
studio. You haven't been sober for three weeks. You've been soaking the
whole time; and yet you pretend you're better than me!'

'What d'you mean?' said Dick.

'Mean! You'll see when Mr. Torpenhow comes back.'

It was not long to wait. Torpenhow met Bessie on the staircase without a
sign of feeling. He had news that was more to him than many Bessies, and
the Keneu and the Nilghai were trampling behind him, calling for Dick.

'Drinking like a fish,' Bessie whispered. 'He's been at it for nearly a
month.' She followed the men stealthily to hear judgment done.

They came into the studio, rejoicing, to be welcomed over effusively by
a drawn, lined, shrunken, haggard wreck,--unshaven, blue-white about
the nostrils, stooping in the shoulders, and peering under his eyebrows
nervously. The drink had been at work as steadily as Dick.

'Is this you?' said Torpenhow.

'All that's left of me. Sit down. Binkie's quite well, and I've been
doing some good work.' He reeled where he stood.

'You've done some of the worst work you've ever