“Welcome, little stranger!” cried Armstrong merrily. “Why tarried the wheels of your chariot so long?”
There was no answer, but the visitor fixed his deeply set piercing eyes upon his brother artist.
“Was there a smoke somewhere last night, old lad, and the whisky of an evil brew?”
“No!” said the visitor shortly.
“Why, Joe, old lad, what’s the matter? Coin run out?”
“No!”
“But there is something, old fellow,” said Armstrong. “Can I help you?” And, passing his brush into the hand which held his palette, he grasped the other by the shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” cried the visitor angrily, and he struck Armstrong’s hand aside.
There was a pause, and then the latter said gravely—
“Joe, old fellow, I don’t want to pry into your affairs, but if I can counsel or help you, don’t shrink from asking. Can I do anything?”