But, with the cry on my lips, my diagnosis suffered an unexpected check.
“This is my own lair,” he said, leading me into a dark plain room at the end of the florid vista. It was square and brown and leathery: no “effects”; no bric-a-brac, none of the air of posing for reproduction in a picture weekly—above all, no least sign of ever having been used as a studio.
The fact brought home to me the absolute finality of Jack’s break with his old life.
“Don’t you ever dabble with paint any more?” I asked, still looking about for a trace of such activity.
“Never,” he said briefly.
“Or water-colour—or etching?”
His confident eyes grew dim, and his cheeks paled a little under their handsome sunburn.
“Never think of it, my dear fellow—any more than if I’d never touched a brush.”
And his tone told me in a flash that he never thought of anything else.
I moved away, instinctively embarrassed by my unexpected discovery; and as I turned, my eye fell on a small picture above the mantel-piece—the only object breaking the plain oak panelling of the room.