“Yes.”
Lotta said:
“I like the way you face things. There is no one like you for that—except Cathleen. . . . Where will you live now?”
“For the time being, with Kilner, I think.”
“I found him a little studio in Hampstead. He is delighted and happy with it.”
“I’ll go there now, if you don’t mind.”
Lotta gave him the direction, and in a few minutes by Tube he was with Kilner, whom he found hard at work at a new Adam and Eve, squaring the composition on to the canvas.
“It’s pouring money,” said Kilner. “Your twenty pounds came one day and the next I heard that two drawings of mine had been sold, a head of Old Lunt and a half-length of Martin patting a horse’s rump. . . . Casey’s been up here every day asking for you.”
“Casey? What does he want? Money? I’m not a millionaire.”
“The poor devil has to leave London. It’s eating up the little piece of his lung left by South Africa.”