I'll show you some of his
last and worst work in his studio."
Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of mind.
He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of the Thames
through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking of Torpenhow's
advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study of the faces flocking
past. Some had death written on their features, and Dick marvelled that they
could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for the most part, were alight
with love; others were merely drawn and lined with work; but there was
something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The poor at least should
suffer that he might learn, and the rich should pay for the output of his
learning. Thus his credit in the world and his cash balance at the bank would
be increased. So much the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take
toll of the ills of others.
The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on
the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide between
the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by
her lover shouted shamelessly, "Ah, get away, you beast!" and a shift of the
same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick"s face the black smoke of a
river-steamer at her berth below the wall.
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