He had been painting patiently all one morning, almost angrily sometimes because he could not exactly translate his thought to the canvas, when he was surprised by a knock at the door of the cottage. Mrs. Witchout had not yet returned from her morning’s marketing, so he went to the door himself, expecting to find some casual visitor from Brighton who had heard of his being down here. He was astonished to see Mortimer. “My dear Fred, is it you or your ghost?” “I don’t suppose any ghost ever had such a thirst on him as I have; show me the way to the pump; I could drink buckets even of water.” “Oh, we’re not so primitive as that—but, rot! you’ve been here before. Come along, there’s whisky and a siphon in the locker here. Drink, smoke and chat while I paint, only don’t mind if I don’t hear a word you say. I’m at a ticklish point. How are you and what brings you down? Spread your answer out as long as you can, so that I needn’t say anything for at least five minutes.” “I’m well. Came down because there was a rush of work in the office and I was afraid I might be in the way,” Mortimer answered, with a chuckle. He then lighted a cigarette, sat down on the window seat and looked aimlessly out over the broad down. The sun was shining brightly, a lark was singing somewhere high up in the blue, through the open window drifted the keen, fresh air, full of the salt fragrance of the sea; the world looked young down here to the eye of the Londoner. Then, stealthily, he watched Maddison. At first he saw no change in him: he appeared well and hearty; but later he noticed a tired, nervous look about the eyes, and that every now and then he bit his lip as if impatient at some difficulty he could not immediately overcome. He had often before watched him at work and had always wondered at the vigorous joy Maddison found in his labor. “May I look?” he asked. “Yes, I don’t mind your looking; you don’t imagine you really know anything about pictures and so you don’t chatter bosh and think it criticism.” Mortimer stood in front of the easel, looking keenly at the picture—a great stretch of the downs and the gray sea beyond, overhead a splendid tumult of rain cloud. “Well, say something, however idiotic!” exclaimed Maddison, after impatiently waiting for Mortimer to speak. “My dear boy, what’s up? Have I interrupted you at an awkward moment? Why didn’t you tell me?” said Mortimer, turning quickly, surprised at the tone in which Maddison had spoken. “No, no, of course not.” “It’s the first time I’ve heard you speak as if you were put out about something. Nothing’s wrong?” “No, no!” Maddison answered, laying his hand heartily on Mortimer’s shoulder, “not a bit. But—what do you think of it?” “And this is the first time you’ve ever _asked_ my humble opinion. I like it.” “That sounds rather dubious. Speak out—you mean you don’t like it.” Mortimer looked again at the picture hesitatingly. “You _don’t_ like it,” said Maddison again.