He conceived that this memory would be the extreme of his sufferings, till one
Sunday, the red-haired girl announced that she would make a study of Dick's
head, and that he would be good enough to sit still, and--quite as an
afterthought--look at Maisie. He sat, because he could not well refuse, and for
the space of half an hour he reflected on all the people in the past whom he
had laid open for the purposes of his own craft. He remembered Binat most
distinctly,--that Binat who had once been an artist and talked about
degradation.
It was the merest monochrome roughing in of a head, but it presented the dumb
waiting, the longing, and, above all, the hopeless enslavement of the man, in a
spirit of bitter mockery.
"I'll buy it," said Dick, promptly, "at your own price."
"My price is too high, but I dare say you'll be as grateful if----" The wet
sketch, fluttered from the girl's hand and fell into the ashes of the studio
stove. When she picked it up it was hopelessly smudged.
"Oh, it's all spoiled!" said Maisie. "And I never saw it. Was it like?"
"Thank you," said Dick under his breath to the red-haired girl, and he removed
himself swiftly.
"How that man hates me!" said the girl. "And how he loves you, Maisie!"
"What nonsense? I knew Dick's very fond of me, but he had his work to do, and I
have mine.
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