Presently we left him. Dirk was going home to dinner, and I proposed to find a doctor and bring him to see Strickland; but when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his studio. He had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he insisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him. Since I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more than we had done, I consented. We found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for dinner. Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands. “Dear one, I want you to do something for me,” he said. She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms. His red face was shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic agitation, but there was in his round, surprised eyes an eager light. “Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He is alone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul to look after him. I want you to let me bring him here.” She withdrew her hands quickly, I had never seen her make so rapid a movement; and her cheeks flushed. “Oh no.” “Oh, my dear one, don’t refuse. I couldn’t bear to leave him where he is. I shouldn’t sleep a wink for thinking of him.” “I have no objection to your nursing him.” Her voice was cold and distant. “But he’ll die.” “Let him.” Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face. He turned to me for support, but I did not know what to say. “He’s a great artist.” “What do I care? I hate him.” “Oh, my love, my precious, you don’t mean that. I beseech you to let me bring him here. We can make him comfortable. Perhaps we can save him. He shall be no trouble to you. I will do everything. We’ll make him up a bed in the studio. We can’t let him die like a dog. It would be inhuman.” “Why can’t he go to a hospital?” “A hospital! He needs the care of loving hands. He must be treated with infinite tact.” I was surprised to see how moved she was. She went on laying the table, but her hands trembled. “I have no patience with you. Do you think if you were ill he would stir a finger to help you?” “But what does that matter? I should have you to nurse me. It wouldn’t be necessary. And besides, I’m different; I’m not of any importance.” “You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. You lie down on the ground and ask people to trample on you.” Stroeve gave a little laugh. He thought he understood the reason of his wife’s attitude. “Oh, my poor dear, you’re thinking of that day he came here to look at my pictures. What does it matter if he didn’t think them any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him. I dare say they’re not very good.” He looked round the studio ruefully. On the easel was a half-finished picture of a smiling Italian peasant, holding a bunch of grapes over the head of a dark-eyed girl. “Even if he didn’t like them he should have been civil. He needn’t have insulted you. He showed that he despised you, and you lick his hand. Oh, I hate him.”