“It isn’t nonsense. You’ve seen straight off what I’ve been trying not to see. You’re right, damnably right. It’s as dead as can be—not a touch of life or light in it.”
He threw down his palette and brushes impatiently, crossed once again to Mortimer and stood behind him, gazing gloomily over his shoulder.
“The critics will probably say I’ve eclipsed myself, all except Tasker, who will say that, but mean total eclipse. But so long as it sells well, what does it matter?”
“Look here, Maddison,” said Mortimer, sharply, “there is something wrong, or you couldn’t speak like that. This hermitizing down here don’t suit you. Lock up the shop for to-day at any rate, and come into Brighton for a blow off. Now, I know you’re going to say ‘no,’ but I say ‘yes,’ and if you’ll give me a shake-down I’ll bring my traps over to stay the night here.”
Maddison hesitated a moment, then consented.
They drove back after dinner at the Metropole, where Mortimer had intended to stop. The night was bitterly cold, and the huge fire which Mrs. Witchout had made up in the studio was grateful.
“Now, I want to have a real yarn with you, George,” Mortimer said, as he stretched his cold hands toward the warmth. “I told you a tarradiddle this morning—I came down simply because I’ve something I want to talk to you about.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Marian, is there?” Maddison asked, leaning forward eagerly and speaking anxiously. “It’s not that?”
“She was quite well when I last saw her.”
Maddison sighed with relief and sat back again in his chair, puffing steadily at his pipe.