“But probably to return in a day or two.”
Crow looked stealthily around to see if he were not likely to be overheard, and then, approaching Kate, said in a whisper,—
“I don't think he 'll ever cross the doors again.”
“How so? has he received any offence?”
“I can't make out what it is,” said Simmy, with a puzzled look, “but he came to my room late last night, and sat down without saying a word; and at last, when I questioned him if he were ill, he said suddenly,—
“'Have you found, Mr. Crow, that in your career as an artist, you have been able to withdraw yourself sufficiently from the ordinary events of life as to make up a little world of your own, wherein you lived indifferent to passing incidents?'
“'Yes,' said I, 'I have, whenever I was doing anything really worth the name.'
“'And at such times,' said he, again, 'you cared nothing, or next to nothing, for either the flatteries or the sarcasms of those around you?”
“'I could n't mind them,' said I, 'for I never so much as heard them.'
“'Exactly what I mean,' said he, rapidly. 'Intent upon higher ambitions, you were above the petty slights of malice or envy, and with your own goal before you, were steeled against the minor casualties of the journey. Then why should not I also enjoy the immunity? Can I not summon to my aid a pride like this, or am I to be discouraged and disgraced to my own heart by a mere impertinence?'