"I never heard about that." "Franks wouldn't talk about it, be sure. He saw me in a hobble--I lost everything, all at once--and he went to work like a brick to get money for me. And that, when he felt more disposed to poison himself than to paint. Do you think I should criticise the work he did under these circumstances?" "No, indeed! Thank you, Mr. Warburton, for telling me that story." "How exquisite London is at this time of the year!" Rosamund murmured, as having declared it was time to be walking homewards, they walked slowly towards the bridge. "I'm glad not to be going away. Look at that lovely sky! Look at the tones of those houses.-- Oh, I _must_ make use of it all! Real use, I mean, as splendid material for art, not only for money-making. Do advise me, Mr. Warburton. Where shall I go to look for bits?" Walking with bent head, Will reflected. "Do you know Camberwell?" he asked. "There are good little corners--" "I don't know it at all. Could you--I'm afraid to ask. You couldn't spare time--?" "Oh yes, easily. That's to say, during certain hours." "On Monday say? In the afternoon?" "Yes." "How kind of you!" murmured Rosamund. "If I were only an amateur, amusing myself, I couldn't give you the trouble; but it's serious; I _must_ earn money before long. You see, there's nothing else I can do. My sister--you know I have a sister?--she has taken to teaching; she's at St. Jean de Luz. But I'm no use for anything of that kind. I must be independent. Why do you smile?" "Not at you, but at myself. I used to say the same thing. But I had no talent of any kind, and when the smash came--" They were crossing the bridge. Will looked westward, in the direction of his shop, and it struck him how amusing it would be to startle Rosamund by a disclosure of his social status. Would she still be anxious for his company in search of the picturesque? He could not feel sure--curiosity urged him to try the experiment, but an obscure apprehension closed his lips. "How very hard for you!" sighed Rosamund. "But don't think," she added quickly, "that I have a weak dread of poverty. Not at all! So long as one can support oneself. Nowadays, when every one strives and battles for money, there's a distinction in doing without it." Five minutes more, and they were in Oakley Crescent. Rosamund paused before reaching the house in which she dwelt, took the camp-stool from her companion, and offered her hand for good-bye. Only then did Warburton become aware that he had said nothing since that remark of hers about poverty; he had walked in a dream. CHAPTER 32 August came, and Strangwyn, the great whisky distiller, was yet alive. For very shame, Will kept his thoughts from that direction. The gloomy mood had again crept upon him, in spite of all his reasons for hope; his sleep became mere nightmare, and his day behind the counter a bilious misery.