He drew a chair, a poor rickety piece of furniture, before the stove, and sat down upon it.
She smiled as it struck her how, unconsciously, he had, even in a troubled state of mind, taken the warmest place in the room. He sat for some while, gazing drearily into the furnace.
She wished he would say his say, and let her get back to her work.
At last he spoke in a low voice:
“Ah, Caroline, you and Anthony are the true artists—I only a fair-weather one.... I have always dreaded the attic. I never could put aside discomfort.... Anthony was quite right—I am painting the most soulless things.... They pay.”
She felt relieved. Anthony had evidently not gone with his hat in his hand.
“Well—we do not yearn for the attic heights precisely,” she said drily.
He let the flippancy pass. He was too interested in himself to trouble about their tastes.
“I am too successful,” he said.
She smiled: