“I’m so—so sorry for her!” she faltered out.
Deering made no reply, but, turning on his heel, walked the length of the studio, and then halted vaguely before the picture on the easel. It was the landscape he had begun the previous autumn, with the intention of sending it to the Salon that spring. But it was still unfinished—seemed, indeed, hardly more advanced than on the fateful October day when Lizzie, standing before it for the first time, had confessed her inability to deal with Juliet. Perhaps the same thought struck its creator, for he broke into a dry laugh, and turned from the easel with a shrug.
Under his protracted silence Lizzie roused herself to the fact that, since her pupil was absent, there was no reason for her remaining any longer; and as Deering again moved toward her she said with an effort: “I’ll go, then. You’ll send for me when she comes back?”
Deering still hesitated, tormenting the cigarette between his fingers.
“She’s not coming back—not at present.”
Lizzie heard him with a drop of the heart. Was everything to be changed in their lives? But of course; how could she have dreamed it would be otherwise? She could only stupidly repeat: “Not coming back? Not this spring?”
“Probably not, since are friends are so good as to keep her. The fact is, I’ve got to go to America. My wife left a little property, a few pennies, that I must go and see to—for the child.”
Lizzie stood before him, a cold knife in her breast. “I see—I see,” she reiterated, feeling all the while that she strained her eyes into impenetrable blackness.
“It’s a nuisance, having to pull up stakes,” he went on, with a fretful glance about the studio.
She lifted her eyes slowly to his face. “Shall you be gone long?” she took courage to ask.