Tom goaded on. Never had he been so lonely, never had he needed David more. Yearning to fling himself on David’s side, to his feet, his words grew sharper, falser. “He is silent,” mocked the emboldened Durthal. “Perhaps he isn’t pure, at all. This _is_ important, you know. How shall we ever find out?” “But even if he is, do you think, Darby, that would make him worth painting?” Tom leaned back on his heels and poised David. “Yes,” he said slowly, “he _is_ worth painting.” “Tell us, Markand--_are_ you what you profess to be,” Durthal mock-pleaded. David was up. He was white. He was suddenly strong and gentle. He walked to the door and opened it. “Get out,” he said. They sat there, rigid. They looked to Tom. The gap of the open door was a drawing burn upon them. Tom said no word. He gave a little laugh and was silent also. Lunn fumbled for his hat. “Guess I’ll be going,” he rose jerkily to his feet. Durthal rose glibly. They came close to David. His hand held the door wide open. They passed his eyes; they strained to hold to their slow pace. As they moved down the dark hall, they had the sense in their backs of an impending blow.... David stood with his back against the shut door. He had done a violent thing; he was afraid be had done wrong. These were Tom’s friends. No--by the truth--these were not! But by what human right--he could not look at Tom’s eyes. He had a sense of guilt. All his sense of hurt was gone before his sense of guilt. Tom stood waiting for his eyes, in order to tell him with his own how much he thanked him. David struggled with his body: turned it about: left the room. He knew he would go wandering aimless through the streets. Tom was alone. His eyes had failed to give their message. He had not moved from his seat. He sat upright, rigid. Had sentence been passed against him: and why was it good? And why were his hands so empty? A strange despair crept over Tom, stiffened his muscles, dimmed his mind. So he sat, knowing not how long.... A knock at the door. Another knock. He lifted his head laboriously to see the door. He saw the room. It was cruel clear. The ugly paint of the woodwork, the neat pale paper cutting and empty against him, the rocker where David loved to sit and where he felt his absence like a poignant mirthless presence. How terrible clear was the room’s emptiness and the path of something sweet that had been there and was gone! Two grimaces remained, sitting on the couch, sitting for him.... It knocked again.... He felt that he was very faint. “I had no supper,” he said. “It is knocking.” He knew that his head was light. “Come in.” The door burst open. A little boy stamping in: a messenger boy. His face round and swarthy. His eyes roamed about the room like listless beasts, taking in nothing. “Rennard?” he shouted. Strangely his eyes wandered, took in nothing! Such tired eyes: such disillusioned eyes. So weary a boy. He was not there. In Tom’s hands a letter.