“It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you. But you—can you——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. I want to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little. Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. I haven't asked you, but I suppose we can?”
“Why, of course, darling,” said Winnie, coming up and giving her a farewell kiss. “I hate to think the studio isn't yours.”
So Winifred went away and they remained as in the old days. The sudden association gave Clytie a pang. A reaction from her enthusiasm about Jack to weariness of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair.
“What is the matter?” asked Kent, filling his pipe. “You are not looking yourself. It is this steaming London. Why don't you go and get some country air?”
“Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't London and it isn't the weather. It is the world that is out of joint, somehow. I am afraid I have been moping. I think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out my grievances to it. That's the best of a cat: it never mopes. It goes on purring cheerfully so long as it's warm and well fed, and when you feel paradoxical it never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like cats? I forget.”
“What are you moping about?” he asked between the first few puffs of his kindling pipe.
“Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, Kent. I have come on all over moods, and I want comforting.”
“You should work,” replied Kent with some self-restraint. “You have hardly touched a brush in earnest this year. It is the claims of that part of your nature that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't you go on painting? What has the fact of your not having to make your living got to do with your art?”
“Everything, in a way,” she murmured.