“Why doesn’t Amy marry again? She’s comparatively young, and she’s not unattractive. I can recommend her as an excellent wife. If she wants to divorce me I don’t mind giving her the necessary grounds.” Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning, but it was evidently this that he was aiming at. He had some reason to conceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he was using every precaution to hide her whereabouts. I answered with decision. “Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her to divorce you. She’s quite made up her mind. You can put any possibility of that definitely out of your head.” He looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously. “But, my dear fellow, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter a twopenny damn to me one way or the other.” I laughed. “Oh, come now; you mustn’t think us such fools as all that. We happen to know that you came away with a woman.” He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariously that people sitting near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too. “I don’t see anything very amusing in that.” “Poor Amy,” he grinned. Then his face grew bitterly scornful. “What poor minds women have got! Love. It’s always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I’ve done for a woman?” “Do you mean to say you didn’t leave your wife for another woman?” “Of course not.” “On your word of honour?” I don’t know why I asked for that. It was very ingenuous of me. “On my word of honour.” “Then, what in God’s name have you left her for?” “I want to paint.” I looked at him for quite a long time. I did not understand. I thought he was mad. It must be remembered that I was very young, and I looked upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot everything but my own amazement. “But you’re forty.” “That’s what made me think it was high time to begin.” “Have you ever painted?” “I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no money in art. I began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year I’ve been going to some classes at night.” “Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were playing bridge at your club?” “That’s it.” “Why didn’t you tell her?” “I preferred to keep it to myself.” “Can you paint?” “Not yet. But I shall. That’s why I’ve come over here. I couldn’t get what I wanted in London. Perhaps I can here.” “Do you think it’s likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age? Most men begin painting at eighteen.” “I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen.” “What makes you think you have any talent?” He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the passing throng, but I do not think he saw it. His answer was no answer. “I’ve got to paint.”