'I came—I came—to see you, please.'
Dick's lips closed firmly.
'Won't you sit down, then? You see, I've had some bother with my eyes, and—'
'I know. I know. Why didn't you tell me?'
'I couldn't write.'
'You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.'
'What has he to do with my affairs?'
'He—he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see you.'
'Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can't. I forgot.'
'Oh, Dick, I'm so sorry! I've come to tell you, and— Let me take you back to your chair.'
'Don't! I'm not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything about it. I'm no good now. I'm down and done for. Let me alone!'
He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down.
Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down and done for—masterful no longer but rather a little abject; neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be
