These fellows, the big ones, had never fretted their souls with all these frets of style, of art for art’s sake, of their rating by jabbering classifiers in the eternities. Whilst he--he had wasted the years on such tom-follies. Nay, in expressing themselves they had created style. They had had something deeper than style. What was it? There was something deep down in the heart of things that made their work live. Some mystic sense---- By heavens, it was mysticism! He would get up mysticism--read it up at the libraries. He would write mysticism into his work---- He shivered. In the curio shop, a fool of a Jap had drawn a sharp dagger from its sheath that morning--he hated knives and edged tools. God! how cold it was! He suddenly remembered---- Solignac lay stretched on his death-bed. He had a mind to go and see him lying so.... This Solignac must have died enormously rich--his collections were world-famous. He went and put on his hat and cloak; lurched to the door---- At the door he hesitated. Have a care! Look to thyself, master Myre! That leopard quietude, the catlike lithe walk, may be the watchful prowl of one that sees more than thou with all thy blatancy and bold staring of fish-like grey eyes--perhaps, too, fears less. Bluster thou canst outbluster--but the silences thou canst not understand.... Wherefore thou shalt not dare that silent woman beyond the goading point of thy vulgarity--if thou be wise. Have a care. He shut the door--came back--took off his cloak and hat--flung them on a chair. He would like to have flouted this cold woman in that death-chamber; it had never been done, it would come well in his autobiography; but---- What had this woman heard--guessed--seen--in that first month? Damnation! He had been so careful--so circumspect. He recalled the warm accents frozen to cold disdain almost before they had left her father’s house. She baffled him--made him uneasy. He had scolded, supplicated, whimpered, blustered.... What chiefly remained in the fearful hollows of his conceit was the passionless voice in its last statement that if he stepped across her door again she would kill him. On his soul, he had been glad to be rid of her. She alarmed him. He had jested about her to his fellows--but---- He shivered uncomfortably. Yes. This woman alarmed him. He felt that his throat might be slit as he slept.... He rather liked a wordy brawl with women--he had his moments in drawing-room cynicism. He could brow-beat them with the best. He had pen-courage too. With a pen and ink-pot he was absolutely without fear. But---- With this silent woman he never could shake off the feeling of discomfort. She baffled him. He feared her. By God! he had it. He would write a book upon all his gadding loves with women--she should figure there _as one of many_. She would free him in the divorce courts. And the scandal would float him into public notice again. CHAPTER LII