"I was with a painter's lady once before," she said. "He gave me a little picture of myself."
They reached the flat. Pollock's sister had arrived. The doctor had sent his son for her. Pollock was moodily breaking chalk upon a drawing. The studio was foul with the smoke of cigarettes. "I can't work," he said, lighting a cigarette from the fag-end of the last. "Sit down." He flung away his chalk and sat down. "You've been awfully good to me, Roger. You've got me out of a tragedy. You don't know what it feels like."
"How is Kitty?"
"Pretty well, the doctor thinks. God knows what he would call bad. This is all new to me. I don't want to go through this again. God knows if she'll ever get through it. I shall shoot myself if anything happens to Kitty."
Roger glanced at his watch. It was eighteen minutes to ten. He would have to fly to find Ottalie. If she were in town at all, she would be out by ten. He was sure of that. His motor-cab was waiting. He had a quarter of an hour. But how could he leave Pollock in this state?
"Charles," he said, "I want you to come out with me. You've got on shoes, I see. Take your hat. Kitty is with three capable women and a doctor. You're only in the way, and making a fuss. Come with me. I'll leave you at the National Gallery, while I see a friend. Then we'll go to Bondini's, in Suffolk Street." He called gently to Pollock's sister. "Mrs. Fane," he said, "I'm taking Charles to Bondini's, in Suffolk Street."
"A very good thing," said Mrs. Fane. "A man is much better out of the way in times like these."
They started. Just outside Dean's Yard Gate the cab broke down. Roger got out. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing much, sir," said the man, already busy under the bonnet. "I won't keep you a minute. Get in again, sir."
A hand touched Roger's arm. He turned. A total stranger, unmistakably a journalist, was at his side. Roger shuddered. It was an interviewer from The Meridian.