“Yes, I like it. But there’s something wanting; it doesn’t seem to me quite you. It’s the only picture of yours I’ve ever seen that somebody else might have painted.” Maddison turned sharply away and strode over to the window. “Oh, rot, old chap, you mustn’t mind what I say,” protested Mortimer. “You hinted just now that what I don’t know about pictures would set up half a dozen critics, and here you are getting the hump over my nonsense.” “It isn’t nonsense. You’ve seen straight off what I’ve been trying not to see. You’re right, damnably right. It’s as dead as can be—not a touch of life or light in it.” He threw down his palette and brushes impatiently, crossed once again to Mortimer and stood behind him, gazing gloomily over his shoulder. “The critics will probably say I’ve eclipsed myself, all except Tasker, who will say that, but mean total eclipse. But so long as it sells well, what does it matter?” “Look here, Maddison,” said Mortimer, sharply, “there _is_ something wrong, or you couldn’t speak like that. This hermitizing down here don’t suit you. Lock up the shop for to-day at any rate, and come into Brighton for a blow off. Now, I know you’re going to say ‘no,’ but I say ‘yes,’ and if you’ll give me a shake-down I’ll bring my traps over to stay the night here.” Maddison hesitated a moment, then consented. They drove back after dinner at the Metropole, where Mortimer had intended to stop. The night was bitterly cold, and the huge fire which Mrs. Witchout had made up in the studio was grateful. “Now, I want to have a real yarn with you, George,” Mortimer said, as he stretched his cold hands toward the warmth. “I told you a tarradiddle this morning—I came down simply because I’ve something I want to talk to you about.” “There’s nothing wrong with Marian, is there?” Maddison asked, leaning forward eagerly and speaking anxiously. “It’s not _that_?” “She was quite well when I last saw her.” Maddison sighed with relief and sat back again in his chair, puffing steadily at his pipe. “But tell me first,” Mortimer continued after a pause, “what’s wrong with you? I know there is something; I saw it in your face this morning, and though you’ve been as jolly as jolly all day, you’ve not been quite your real self. What is it?” “So I look different, and seem different, and my picture’s not mine. There’s nothing wrong, Fred, nothing that I can lay a name to, but you’re right. I’m changed. It’s this beastly separation from Marian that doesn’t agree with me. I’ll come up to town with you to-morrow and fetch her down here, or settle into the old place again.” “You’re very fond of her,” Mortimer said meditatively, staring at the blazing coals. “I was in love once, and I know what it means, old chap.” “I never knew that——?” “You’re the only one beside myself that does. She wasn’t for me. I’ve told you this because I’ve something—very difficult to tell you, and I want you to understand that—I understand.”