“Hullo! The early bird does the work,” said West. “May I come in and talk while you paint?”
“Come along. You’re a fairly early bird too. There are cigars and cigarettes over there, and an unopened bottle of whisky and a siphon in the locker by the window.”
West took a cigar, and then wandered aimlessly about the room, while Maddison worked at “The Rebel.”
“Ah! _My_ picture!” exclaimed West, looking over his shoulder. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, Maddison. Won’t the critics fight over it. You hit on a thundering good model for it.”
“Your picture! I didn’t promise to let you have it. I’m doubtful if I shall sell it at all.”
“Oh!” said West, with a queer intonation, “I didn’t know you ever felt that way about your work. I thought you laughed at art for art’s sake, and all that damned nonsense, and preached that the laborer is worthy of his hire—eh?”
“As a rule. But—somehow this has got hold of me.”
“Or—the pretty model—eh? Well, I envy you; you’re a lucky devil. What’s the poor curate say? Or is he guilty of the ignorance which is bliss?”
Maddison bit his lips; this raillery which before would have amused him, now made him angry. He felt that the best way to put an end to it would be to speak outright and to show that he did not like West’s tone.
“Her husband does know. The facts are just these, West. Mrs. Squire has left her husband; it was a far from happy marriage. He’s High Church or something and won’t give her a divorce. So—we have to make the best of it. I think it right you should know exactly how matters stand, as she may, in fact, will, be coming down here, and your wife may chance to meet her with me.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot that was her Christian name. So now you understand why I may not wish to part with this picture. If anyone has it it shall be you, if you don’t change your mind.”
“Change my mind! It’s not a thing I used often to do, but I seem always to be at it now. I meant to go up to town this morning, but didn’t. If I’d intended to come here, ten to one I should have run up to town. I’m too young to be growing old, but I feel deuced old all the same, at times.”
He was again strolling vaguely about the room, now pausing to look at a sketch, now glancing out of the window at the undulating stretch of green down.