RODERICK HUDSON
swered. He turned away, threw himself on a rickety chair and sat for some moments with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Work—work?" he said at last, looking up. "Ah, if I could only begin!" He glanced round the room a moment, and his eye encountered on the mantel-shelf the inimitable presence of Mr. Barnaby Striker. His smile vanished—he stared at it with an air of concentrated enmity. "I want to begin," he cried, "and I can't make a better beginning than this! Good-bye, Mr. Barnaby Striker!" He strode across the room, seized a hammer that lay at hand, and before Rowland could interfere, in the interest of art if not of morals, dealt a merciless blow upon Mr. Striker's skull. The bust cracked into a dozen pieces, which toppled with a great crash upon the floor. Rowland relished neither the destruction of the image nor his companion's expression in working it, but as he was about to express his displeasure the door opened and gave passage to a fresh-looking girl. She came in with a rapid step and startled face, as if she had been alarmed by the noise. Meeting the heap of shattered clay and the hammer in Roderick's hand, she gave a cry of horror. Her voice died away as she saw Rowland was a stranger, but she had sounded her reproach. "Why, Roderick, what on earth have you done?"
Roderick gave a joyous kick to the shapeless fragments. "I've driven the money-changers out of the temple!"
The traces retained shape enough to be recognised, and she gave a little moan of pity. She seemed not
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