"
"This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you've been promenading
among the toy-shops and hearing people talk."
"I couldn't help it," said Dick, penitently. "You weren't here, and it was
lonely these long evenings. A man can't work for ever."
"A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk."
"I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they were
artists, and I knew some of them could draw,--but they wouldn't draw. They
gave me tea,--tea at five in the afternoon!--and talked about Art and the state
of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I've heard more about Art and seen
less of her in the last six months than in the whole of my life. Do you
remember Cassavetti, who worked for some continental syndicate, out with the
desert column? He was a regular Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the
field in full fig, with his water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing-case,
housewife, gig-lamps, and the Lord knows what all. He used to fiddle about with
'em and show us how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge
his reports from the Nilghai. See?"
"Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up here this
evening. I see the comparison perfectly.
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