“I've not seen him go out; and I've been painting here all the morning.”
Mrs. Pendyce looked with wonder at an easel which stood outside another door a little further on. It seemed to her strange that her son should live in such a place.
“Shall I knock for you?” said the artist. “All these knockers are stiff.”
“If you would be so kind!”
The artist knocked.
“He must be in,” he said. “I haven't taken my eyes off his door, because I've been painting it.”
Mrs. Pendyce gazed at the door.
“I can't get it,” said the artist. “It's worrying me to death.”
Mrs. Pendyce looked at him doubtfully.
“Has he no servant?” she said.