“Yes—much.”
“Hah! that’s better,” cried Armstrong, as if relieved. “What’s the good of an Orestes, if P. does not come to him when he is in a hole! But you are upset. There’s no hurry. Fill your pipe, and give me a few words about my confounded picture while you calm down. Joe, old man, it’s mythological, and it’s going to turn out a myth. Isn’t there a woman in London who could sit for my Juno?”
“Damn all women!” cried the visitor, in a deep hoarse tone.
“Well, that’s rather too large an order, old fellow. Come, fill your pipe. Now, let’s have it. What’s wrong—landlady?”
The eyes of the man to whom he had been attracted from his first arrival in London, the big, large-hearted, unsuccessful artist, who yet possessed more ability than any one he knew, and whose advice was eagerly sought by a large circle of rising painters, were fixed upon him so intently that the colour rose in Armstrong Dale’s cheeks, and, in spite of his self-control, the younger man looked conscious.
“Then it’s all true,” said Pacey bitterly.
“What’s all true?” cried Dale.
“Armstrong, lad, I passed a bitter night, and I thought I would come on.”
The young artist was silent, but his brow knit, and there was a twitching about the corner of his eyes.
“I sat smoking hard—ounces of strong tobacco; and in the clouds I saw a frank, good-looking young fellow, engaged to as sweet and pure a woman as ever breathed, coming up to this hell or heaven, London, whichever one makes of it, and going wrong. Ulysses among the Sirens, lad; and they sang too sweetly for him—that is, one did. The temptation was terribly strong, and he went under.”