It was true that the corners of the studio draped
themselves in gray film and retired into the darkness, that the spots in his
eyes and the pains across his head were very troublesome, and that Maisie's
letters were hard to read and harder still to answer. He could not tell her of
his trouble, and he could not laugh at her accounts of her own Melancolia which
was always going to be finished. But the furious days of toil and the nights of
wild dreams made amends for all, and the sideboard was his best friend on
earth.
Bessie was singularly dull. She used to shriek with rage when Dick stared at
her between half-closed eyes. Now she sulked, or watched him with disgust,
saying very little.
Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. An incoherent note heralded his
return. "News! great news!" he wrote. "The Nilghai knows, and so does the
Keneu. We're all back on Thursday. Get lunch and clean your accoutrements."
Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she abused him for that he had ever sent
Torpenhow away and ruined her life.
"Well," said Dick, brutally, "you're better as you are, instead of making love
to some drunken beast in the street." He felt that he had rescued Torpenhow
from great temptation.
"I don't know if that's any worse than sitting to a drunken beast in a studio.
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