"What a lovely holiday that would be!" He did not surprise her quick flash of longing. Both remained pensive.
"But tell me about everybody," he said at last. "You see I take more interest in them all than they suppose."
"That's natural enough. After all, Hertfordshire's your home."
He winced visibly, half sorry that he had set her mind in that direction. She, however, proceeded to draw for him various pictures, and he presently found himself listening with a deeper eagerness than he had foreseen. She brought him close again to his own world, uplifted him in his own eyes: he had almost the sensation of being restored to a sphere which it had been more painful to abandon than he had ever admitted. The minutes passed, bringing him a warm, happy sense of social comradeship with his sister. The little fire burned brightly, and the feeling of the well-ordered nest was fragrant and exquisite. He felt his bitterness softening under its influence; a deep peace seemed to surround him, filling the little haven, radiating from Mary's wistful face, from her gentle smile and voice. How thankful he was this terrible London yet held her sympathy!
"It is a great thing for me to have you to come to, Mary," he broke in on her suddenly. "It helps me tremendously."
"Poor Walter!" she breathed. Her eyes filled with tears.
For a moment both were too moved to speak again. But abruptly, as with a courage and firmness long since resolved upon, she looked straight at him.
"Why don't you give it up, darling? This art is ruining your life."
He did not seem surprised at this sudden turn of the conversation, though such a suggestion had never before fallen from her lips. He took her words as a cry of despair rather than an attempt at a stern reckoning.
"Why don't I give it up?" he echoed. "That's an easy question to ask. The answer is difficult. But I can't give it up. It is impossible."