“Trespass? Who talks of trespass? I shall tell you quite openly when I am tired of you, but you know when we had the studio together, we used not to bore each other. However, it is ill talking of going away on the moment of your arrival. Just a stroll to the river, and then it will be dinner-time.” Darcy took out his cigarette case, and offered it to the other. Frank laughed. “No, not for me. Dear me, I suppose I used to smoke once. How very odd!” “Given it up?” “I don’t know. I suppose I must have. Anyhow I don’t do it now. I would as soon think of eating meat.” “Another victim on the smoking altar of vegetarianism?” “Victim?” asked Frank. “Do I strike you as such?” He paused on the margin of the stream and whistled softly. Next moment a moor-hen made its splashing flight across the river, and ran up the bank. Frank took it very gently in his hands and stroked its head, as the creature lay against his shirt. “And is the house among the reeds still secure?” he half-crooned to it. “And is the missus quite well, and are the neighbours flourishing? There, dear, home with you,” and he flung it into the air. “That bird’s very tame,” said Darcy, slightly bewildered. “It is rather,” said Frank, following its flight. * * * * * During dinner Frank chiefly occupied himself in bringing himself up-to-date in the movements and achievements of this old friend whom he had not seen for six years. Those six years, it now appeared, had been full of incident and success for Darcy; he had made a name for himself as a portrait painter which bade fair to outlast the vogue of a couple of seasons, and his leisure time had been brief. Then some four months previously he had been through a severe attack of typhoid, the result of which as concerns this story was that he had come down to this sequestered place to recruit. “Yes, you’ve got on,” said Frank at the end. “I always knew you would. A.R.A. with more in prospect. Money? You roll in it, I suppose, and, O Darcy, how much happiness have you had all these years? That is the only imperishable possession. And how much have you learned? Oh, I don’t mean in Art. Even I could have done well in that.” Darcy laughed. “Done well? My dear fellow, all I have learned in these six years you knew, so to speak, in your cradle. Your old pictures fetch huge prices. Do you never paint now?” Frank shook his head. “No, I’m too busy,” he said. “Doing what? Please tell me. That is what everyone is for ever asking me.” “Doing? I suppose you would say I do nothing.” Darcy glanced up at the brilliant young face opposite him. “It seems to suit you, that way of being busy,” he said. “Now, it’s your turn. Do you read? Do you study? I remember you saying that it would do us all--all us artists, I mean--a great deal of good if we would study any one human face carefully for a year, without recording a line. Have you been doing that?” Frank shook his head again.