"Yes, strangely. And yet his eyes were quite vague and dull. I noticed that."
"For all that, Uniacke, his mind may be waking from its sleep."
"Waking from its sleep!" said Uniacke, with a sudden sharpness. "No—impossible!"
"One would almost think you desired that it should not," rejoined Sir Graham, with obvious surprise.
Uniacke saw that he had been foolishly unguarded.
"Oh, no," he said, more quietly, "I only fear that the poor fellow can never recover."
"Why not? From what feeling, from what root of intelligence does his interest in my work spring? May it not be that he vaguely feels as if my picture were connected with his sorrow?"
Uniacke shook his head.
"I am not sure that it is impossible," continued Sir Graham. "To-morrow I begin to make studies for the figures. If he comes to me again, I shall sketch him in."
Uniacke's uneasiness increased. Something within him revolted from the association of his guest and the Skipper. The hidden link between them was a tragedy, a tragedy that had wrecked the reason of the one, the peace of the other. They did not know of this link, yet there seemed horror in such a companionship as theirs, and the clergyman was seized with fear.