'I know--I know. But whether he ever can come back again I know not. A shade or spectre of him, perhaps, or himself, besmirched and smudged, Armorel--dragged through the mud.' 'No. He shall come back--himself--in spotless robes. Now you shall take a studio, and I will come and sit to you. I may bring my little friend, Effie Wilmot, with me? That is agreed, then. You will go, Sir, this very morning and find a studio. Have you gone back to your old friends?' 'Not yet. I had very few friends. I shall go back to them when I have got work to show. Not before.' 'I think you should go back as soon as you have taken your new studio. It will be safer and better. You have been too much alone. And there is another thing--a very important thing--the other night you made me a promise. You tore up something that looked like a cheque. And you assured me that this meant nothing less than a return to the old paths.' 'When I tore up that accursed cheque, Armorel, I became a free man.' 'So I understood. But when one talks of free men one implies the existence of the master or owner of men who are not free. Have you signified to that master or owner your intention to be his bondman no longer?' 'No. I have not.' 'This man, Roland,' she laid her hand on his, 'tell me frankly, has he any hold upon you?' 'None.' 'Can he injure you in any way? Can he revenge himself upon you? Is there any old folly or past wickedness that he can bring up against you?' 'None. I have to begin the world again: that is the outside mischief.' 'All your pictures you have sold to this man, Roland, with me in every one?' 'Yes, all. Spare me, Armorel! With you in every one. Forgive me if you can!' 'I understand now, my poor friend, why you were so cast down and ashamed. What? You sold your genius--your holy, sacred genius--the spirit that is within you! You flung yourself away--your name, which is yourself--you became nothing, while this man pretends that the pictures--yours--were his! He puts his name to them, not your own--he shows them to his friends in the room that he calls his studio--he sends them to the exhibition as his own--and yet you have been able to live! Oh, how could you?--how could you? Oh! it was shameful--shameful--shameful! How could you, Roland? Oh, my master!--I have loaded you with honour--oh, how could you?--how could you?' The vehemence of her indignation soon revived the old shame. Roland hung his head. 'How could I?' he repeated. 'Yes, say it again--ask the question a thousand times--how could I?' 'Forgive me, Roland! I have been thinking about it continually. It is a thing so dreadful, and yesterday something--an unexpected something--brought it back to my mind--and--and--made me understand more what it meant. And oh, Roland, how could you? I thought, before, that you had only idled and trifled away your time; but now I know. And again--again--again--how could you?'