"I'm going away," said Jack. "I'm going to New Quay."
"Of course you are. Well, good-bye. Drop in and see us at any time. I'm very busy," and he was lost in his work.
Jack laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Don't overdo it, old boy," he said. "You soon knock up, you know, if you don't take exercise. And it won't be half so good if you slave at it all day. Half the artistic sense is good digestion."
"No, I'll be very careful," said Frank, half to himself. "Take your hand away, please; I'm drawing in that piece."
"I shall tell them to send breakfast in here at once, Frank," said Margery. "I'm going to have breakfast here with you."
Frank made no reply, and the two left the room together. Armitage was suddenly loath to go, but the carriage was at the door, and it was obviously absurd to stop just because—because Frank had talked a great deal of nonsense the evening before, and had made a wonderfully clever sketch of himself, but for some reason had been dissatisfied with the drawing of the face. Somehow that little point interested him, and he wanted to assure himself that no significance was to be attached to it. Besides, Frank was in better hands than his, for he left behind him this splendidly sensible woman, a sort of apotheosis of common-sense, in whom that rare but prosaic virtue became something keen and subtle. She had said that she thought all this idea of Frank's about his personality was ridiculous. Besides, she could always telegraph to New Quay.
That obliterated face had caught Margery's attention as well as his, and as they walked down the corridor to the front door she said:
"Did you notice that Frank had drawn in the face and then rubbed it out?"
"Yes; I wondered if you had noticed it too."