At home he had an additional cause for pain in the empty room adjoining his, though Charley's defection was somewhat overshadowed by the greater misfortune. But to be betrayed on succeeding days by his best friend and by his girl was enough to shatter any man's faith in humanity.
Next morning after breakfast he sat at his table with his head between his hands, when he was aroused by the sound of an apologetic cough in the hall outside his door. The door was open. A voice spoke his name deprecatingly.
"Here!" said Evan. "Come in."
George Deaves appeared in the doorway, and Evan was sufficiently astonished. Deaves was neatly dressed in black as for a funeral, carrying a highly-polished silk hat over his thumb. He was pale and moist with agitation, and looked not at all sure of his reception.
"I—I didn't know which door was yours," he stammered. "The woman told me to come right up."
Evan could hardly be said to be overjoyed to see his visitor, though his curiosity was somewhat aroused. "Come in," he said. "Sit down. This is an unexpected visit."
"Yes. Thank you." Deaves looked around him vaguely. "So this is where you live?"
"Not a very palatial abode, eh?" said Evan, following the other's thought.
"Not at all! Not at all!" said Deaves hastily. "I mean, very nice. Very suitable. One understands of course that a young artist has his way to make."
It was clear from his agonised and distraught eye that he had not come merely to exchange civilities. "What can I do for you?" asked Evan bluntly.