'Lucky dog!'
'What on earth do you mean?'
'You've lost them—but you've had a woman in your arms—a child on your knee! You don't go to your grave—[Greek: apraktos]—an ignorant, barren fool—like me!'
Fenwick looked at him in amazement. Self-scorn—bitter and passionate regret—transformed the face beside him. He pressed the fevered hand.
'Watson!—dear fellow!'
Watson withdrew his hand, and once more folded the monkey to him.
'There are plenty of men like me,' he muttered. 'We are afraid of living—and art is our refuge. Then art takes its revenge—and we are bad artists, because we are poor and sterilised human beings. But you'—he spoke with fresh energy, composing himself—'don't talk rot!—as though your chance was done. You'll find her—she'll come back to you—when she's drunk the cup. Healthy young women don't die before thirty-five;—and by your account she wasn't bad—she had a conscience. The child'll waken it. Don't you be hard on her!'—he raised himself, speaking almost fiercely—'you've no right to! Take her in—listen to her—let her cry it out. My God!'—his voice dropped, as his head fell back on the pillows—'what happiness—what happiness!'
His eyes closed. Fenwick stooped over him in alarm, but the thin hand closed again on his.
'Don't go. What was she like?'
Fenwick asked him whether he remembered the incident of the sketch-book at their first meeting—the drawing of the mother and child in the kitchen of the Westmoreland farm.