for.

There seemed, moreover, a note of suspicion of Quarriar sounding
underneath, but I found comfort in the reflection that to Sir Asher my
model was nothing more than the usual applicant for assistance,
whereas to me who had lived for months in daily contact with him he
was something infinitely more human.

Spring was now nearing; I finished my picture early in March--after
four months' strenuous labour--shook hands with my model, and received
his blessing. I was somewhat put out at learning that Conn had not yet
given him the five pounds necessary to start him, as I had been hoping
he might begin his new calling immediately the sittings ended. I gave
him a small present to help tide over the time of waiting.

But that tragic face on my own canvas remained to haunt me, to ask the
question of his future, and few days elapsed ere I found myself
starting out to visit him at his home. He lived near Ratcliffe
Highway, a district which I found had none of that boisterous marine
romance with which I had associated it.

The house was a narrow building of at least the sixteenth century,
with the number marked up in chalk on the rusty little door. I
happened to have stumbled on the Jewish Passover. Quarriar was called
down, evidently astonished and unprepared for my appearance at his
humble abode, but he expressed pleasure, and led me up the narrow,
steep stairway, whose ceiling almost touched my head as I climbed up
after him. On the first floor the landlord, in festal raiment,
intercepted us, introduced himself in English (which he spoke with
pretentious inaccuracy), and, barring my further ascent, took
possession of me, and led the way to his best parlour, as if it were
entirely unbecoming for his tenant to receive a gentleman in his
attic.

He was a strapping young fellow, full of acuteness and vigour--a
marked contrast to Quarriar's drooping, dignified figure standing
silently near by, and radiating poverty and suffering all the more in
the little old panelled room, elegant with a big carved walnut
cabinet, and gay with chromos and stuffed birds. Effusively the
master-tailor painted himself as the champion of the poor fellow, and
protested against this outside partnership that was being imposed on
him by the notorious Conn. He himself, though he could scarcely afford
it, was keeping his cuttings for him, in spite of tempting offers from
other quarters, even of a shilling a sack. But of course he didn't see
why an