And then Barnabas did a queer thing. He put his arm round the child and kissed her lips.
CHAPTER XIII
AT THE WORLD’S END
BARELY half an hour after Miss Mason’s sudden decision Barnabas set out for a small and rather unwholesome street somewhere in the direction of the World’s End. It was given by Pippa as the locality in which Mrs. Higgins had her residence.
It was not entirely on Miss Mason’s account that Barnabas was anxious to make further enquiries regarding the child. As he walked along the King’s Road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from the feet of many passers-by, his mind travelled back to memories which Pippa’s face had awakened in him.
They were memories some fourteen or fifteen years old, of the time when he was a young art student. A scene he had almost forgotten came clearly back to him. He saw a big class-room full of easels and men working and smoking. He saw himself, very young, very full of enthusiasm, yet at the moment very full of despair. He saw himself looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble attempt to reproduce on canvas the figure of the nude model who was standing on the platform before him. He saw the master coming near, and heard his words. They were few but sarcastic. He had felt that the whole room was listening to them. First an insane desire to sink into the floor had overwhelmed him, then a feeling that he had better take his canvas and brushes and fling them into the river. It had been mere presumption on his part to dream of art as a career. He had seen the other figures in the room through a kind of hazy blur. The voice of the master as he went from easel to easel had come to him as through cotton-wool. He did not notice that almost equally sarcastic remarks were being levelled at the other canvases, and were being received by their owners with indifference or with good-humoured laughter. He had heard the door close presently as the master left the room. Then he heard a voice at his elbow—a curiously musical voice:
“It’s a pity Saltby looks upon sarcasm in the light of instruction in art. He can paint quite decently himself, but he has no more notion of teaching than a tom cat.”
Barnabas remembered that he had turned to look at the speaker, and had seen a dark foreign-looking man standing beside him. The man had looked at him sharply.
“That fellow has worried you,” he said. “They’re just calling rest. Come along out and have a smoke.”
Barnabas remembered following him into the corridor. He remembered the curious feeling of restful strength the man had given him as they walked up and down together.