This was the most encouraging remark Mitchell had had from either during the day, and he decided that he was in love with Clowes.
A brisk walk through narrow dingy streets brought them, with some help from the police, to the door of Issy’s house. Mitchell knocked and a grimy little Jewess opened to them.
“Mr. Mendel Kühler?” said Mitchell.
“Upstairs to the top,” replied the Jewess as she hurried away. They climbed the shabbily carpeted stairs and knocked at the door of the studio. Mendel opened it. He stood with a brush in his hand, blinking. He stared at Mitchell and then beyond him at Morrison.
“Come in,” he said. “I’d just finished. I’ve been working rather hard and haven’t spoken to a soul for three days. You must forgive me if I don’t seem very intelligent.”
They went in and he made tea for them, hardly ever taking his eyes off Morrison. He said pointedly to Mitchell:—
“So you came down to the East End to find me.”
Clowes explained:—
“I’m a stranger to London and had never seen the docks, you know.”
“I have never seen the docks either, though I live so near,” said he. Then, catching Morrison glancing in the direction of his easel, he turned his work for her to see, almost ignoring the others. Afterwards he produced drawings for her to see, and he seemed entirely bent on pleasing her, which so embarrassed her that, when she could escape his gaze, she looked imploringly over at the others. They could not help her, and he went on until he had shown her every piece of work in the studio. Whenever she spoke, shyly and diffidently, as though she knew her opinion was of no value, he gave a queer little grunt of triumph, and his eyes glittered as he looked over at Mitchell, as though to say that he too knew how to treat the “top-knots” and to please them.