"Poor fellow!"
It was well to have met Lawrence before going to Wray's studio—awkward situations might have ensued. I delved for more of the domestic history.
"She was the prey of mischief-makers—there were so many who envied her. People whispered cruelly of her mysterious elfish beauty, and women coveted her golden hair; for nothing women resent so much as Nature's own coronation of sovereignty. She was only eighteen, and believed in him—worse luck for her. Afterwards she became jealous and tried the spur. It makes some beasts go and some stand stock still. He gibbed. Rash people—men—quoted Byron, told her that constancy was woman's greatest vice; others—women—bragged of the equality of man and woman, hinted at levelling down when you can't level up."
"He had cared for her?"
"It was a love match. But you can't plant figs in the midst of thistles. He was easygoing, hated a smart, so there was no uprooting, and the fig tree perished!"
There were tears in Lawrence's eyes, but he began whistling a music hall air in affectation of nonchalance.
"Well," I said, extending a hand as we neared Buckingham Gate, "it is miserably sad, but thanks for instructing me. I shall be saved unlucky allusions."
"You mean to see him?" he asked, dejectedly.
"Certainly."
With a wry sneer of dissatisfaction he bade me good-bye, and I continued my way to the studio.