He rose, and took up his hat. "I daresay you are right, Mary. But I am an artist. Art is my life. Outside that there is nothing for me. Don't think I am ungrateful for all you have done. Goodbye!"
"Goodbye, darling. Perhaps you will yet think it over."
He shook his head wearily and turned away, not seeing that she had held her lips to him. The next moment he was descending the muddy staircase, slipping and stumbling on the bare stone. He was conscious that Mary was standing in the doorway a moment, but he did not see the convulsive working of her face, nor know that as soon as he was out of sight she had thrown herself on her bed, heart-broken, her body shaken in a terrible burst of sobbing.
IV
In the High Street Wyndham waited impatiently for an omnibus to take him home again. Instinctively he turned for refuge to the bleak studio, from whose loneliness he had so often been impelled to escape. But it was his own corner, and all he had. He would not light his lamp; he would lie there in the gloom till his pain and self-abasement should have worn themselves out. Merciful sleep might come; perhaps—and the idea seemed sweet to him—the sleep of all sleeps.
So he possessed his spirit as best he could, while the vehicle lumbered along through the endless streets; shivering a little in the autumn dusk as now and then a gust of wind arose. The sky clouded heavily, and, when finally he descended, the rain was falling swiftly again.
At last he was at home! He thought of the studio now with affection, and quickened his pace feverishly. Then he became aware that a familiar figure, holding a familiar rush-bag with a skewer thrust through it, was trudging just ahead of him in the growing darkness. But he was not surprised at catching sight of Mr. Robinson, since it was the regular hour of the merchant's appearance after his homeward journey from the City. As usual, Mr. Robinson's house filled the centre of vision, looming vast at the cross-roads, and softened in the evening mist; and for the first time the figure plodding towards it under the dripping umbrella struck Wyndham as interesting and strangely human.
Steadily, steadily, Wyndham gained on his neighbour; then, acting on some vague instinct, slackened his step so as not to have to pass him to get to his own door. But just outside the studio Mr. Robinson slipped, swayed, then came to the ground heavily. Wyndham at once hurried forward, and helped him to his feet.