“The model’s good enough,” said the other man impatiently. “She never stood better. The fault lies somewhere else. I wish it didn’t.”
Jack glanced at him with an honest expression of dismay.
“Oh, I say, Everitt,” he exclaimed, “it’s absurd to talk like that. Everybody’s got their slack times. To-morrow you’ll paint better than ever you did in your life. You’ve run down—that’s all.”
“I’ve half a mind to go away,” Everitt said.
“Well,” Jack replied, heroically, “perhaps that would set you up. Where shall we go?”
“We?”
“You didn’t suppose you were going to get rid of me?”
“If I go, I go by myself,” Everitt answered, with decision. “You’ve got into the swing of work at last; stick to it, my boy, and you’ll do something good. As to where I shall go, I’m not in the mood for any place in particular. Toss up, if you choose, and settle for me.”
Jack made a further endeavour to persuade him to let him be his companion, but the elder man was quite resolute in his determination to be alone. He did not care where he went, and no place offered any particular attraction; he had only a restless desire to shake off an influence which seemed to be in some strange way paralysing his work. The fact that it was so paralysing it no doubt alarmed him; he had not been prepared for such a result, and all his instincts revolted against it. He argued that an infatuation springing from so slight a foundation should be under reasonable control. He would not have parted from it for worlds, but was it to be suffered to wreck his life? He tried another day with his model; at the end of it he painted out her figure and turned his canvas with its face to the wall. When Jack came in, he found Hill at work under Everitt’s directions.
“I’m off,” the latter said, briefly.