Sitting down at last, he began rapidly, with swift telling strokes of colour, to sketch in an impression of the dejected figure before him where he sat in the deep shadows of the ill-lit place.
“By the way, Sick-horse,” said he—“I suppose I must put you down in the census-paper—you are going to stay the night, of course.”
“Ye—yes, sir,” said the man.
“So am I—Mr. Doome has lent me his studio, so let us begin. We’ve got your name and your calling. Are you of unsound mind?”
The man laughed huskily:
“You needn’t put it at that, sir,” said he.
“You’ve got a fizzing fine suicidal look on you, when you don’t smile, Sick-horse,” said Fluffy, painting away. “I’ve been pining for a good Judas Iscariot for years.... Don’t shift more than you can help.... Oh, about the census. Are you married?”
The pale-faced man nodded gloomily—he was.
“Tut, tut! How dreadful!” said Fluffy. “No wonder you’re ashamed of yourself. What’s become of the wife?”
“She’s alive,” he said gloomily.