The atmosphere of Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no progress with her picture, and at last she laid it aside in despair. She had set her heart upon painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, prevented her from sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy her ambition, stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy certain cravings of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these cravings found articulate utterance could the haunting shadows be fixed. The lack, therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her spiritual nature or in her material experience of the world she could not tell; perhaps it was a subtle combination of the two. She could not bring her lens of introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was blurred and inchoate.

She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days' interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma.

“If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are grasping at shadows.”

That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through a millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the keenness of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at least so she told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her visit to Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her spirits rose. She was free once more to live her own life, without fear of comment or criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, and she desired little more at present; but there was the exhilarating sense of freedom, of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence.

She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with reproachful inquiry.

“I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.”

Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away her head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack, who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad of Clytie's money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things at home—well, Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Burmester's every afternoon to cheer up the invalid.

“And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie.

“Of course—every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply.

And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to herself a little mysterious smile.

Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had brought the boy picture-books, toys—had sat up with him one night whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. Never had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was growing quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed to get him a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him an honest career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never known before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good and beautiful people!

In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions when she had exchanged a few words with him.

“He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said Clytie.

She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour, while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs.

“Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie.

“Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred.

Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But Kent did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might at least have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. Surely she could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested in her book, sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her book down, expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she detected a faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread did not cease, but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then she went to bed, somewhat angry.

She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight. Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his way to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at the colour man's in Oxford Street.

“Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to her pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She was alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt humiliated, insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her shoulders to the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of the suggestion—the mere fact of the suggestion presenting itself was sufficient to make her burn with indignation.

After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the shops and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone brightly. Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring loungers, bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in the gallery, and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, in Oxford Street, she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its broad pavement. Perhaps the wished-for face would meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself; in which case she determined that she would stop, pass it and repass it, fixing its features in her memory. She amused herself thus for some time, scanning the faces of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to account, here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, and there for the lines of pain round the corners of an older woman's lips. She paused before a shop-window to observe a ragged little arab who was flattening a nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, against the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a trivial pretext so as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect of the urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future use, she went on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with its manifold variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This perpetual stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the quiet country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in the sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, with a purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high gods are very sparing.

Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed:

“My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?”

She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling. They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together.

“When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you been to see us?”

“This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just thinking of coming round to Harley Street.”

“That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little—no, a big treat for you.”

“Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed down Bond Street, and I am hungry.”

“It's Thornton—at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of triumph.

Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's.

“When did he come?”

“He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do you know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do hope you will like him.”

“And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked Clytie.

“So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his way. But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.”

“Is he staying with you?”

“Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides, he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a personage.”

“Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing.

“Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse girl,” cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste to get back, as it is growing late.”

Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be infected with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as one generally does find the particular heroes of our intimate friends. Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was a hero, a latter-day berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web of romance around his brilliant exploits. She had often waxed eloquent over his fame, his personal charm, his physical strength and beauty.

“But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say sometimes, teasingly.

And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that generally characterised her personal gossip:

“Wait until you have seen him, my dear.”

To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the army shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of years of the dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission. An exploring party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its leading spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated through illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public notice. When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a volunteer, and made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous feats of bodily strength. His name was known all through the army. He courted danger, especially where it took the form of hand to hand fighting. An eye-witness of the scene had told Caroline how once, when attacked by three gigantic Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the body, lost his sword, leaped from his horse, wrenched the spear from one of the others with a force that made the man's arm snap like a twig, turn on the other—while the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back and tried to throttle him—and how before there was time to follow his movements both were lying dead at his feet. He had fought side by side with Burnaby in the rash conflict when the author of the “Ride to Khiva” fell pierced with Soudanese spears. He had been in evidence in every skirmish. When the war was over he remained in Africa, on the Soudan frontier, in command of some Egyptian cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla warfare until the troops were recalled. And then he plunged into the interior, exploring on his own account, with a nominal authority from the Belgian government. And it was on this part of his career that his reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories against him of undue harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time. But he laughed at these rumours on his return to England, and sarcastically observed in a letter to the Times that, given a community consisting of a judge, a prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage maniacs, it was a matter of some difficulty to form an impartial jury.

When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas had not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only dimly visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson, the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his great powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large, finely shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as he exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin.

Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea was brought in.

“You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to put up with!”

“I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction foolish gossip.”

“Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like it, Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.”

“And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea.

The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the studios, Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke brightly, in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself and of the interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings. Although the subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried away by the influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at him from time to time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the instinctive feminine way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in the gloom, and she could only gather a general impression of physical size and vitality. She was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with her face in the direct glow, she was visible to him, and that he was looking at her quietly as he smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked up a newspaper from a little table by her side, and held it before her face as a screen. His glance, which she felt rather than met, embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why. Gradually the talk drifted into a slight discussion between the two men. Mrs. Farquharson took advantage of it to draw her chair near to Clytie.

“And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself. Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.”

Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham, making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly:

“And Kent? What has become of him?”

“He is still alive,” said Clytie.

“Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. He has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to say for himself?”

“I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard from him. I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, brightening.

“That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand when you entered the house.”

Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden tributes.

“I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a scheme for the better occupation of it.”

“Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst he has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly.

“Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he hasn't!”

“One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about her,—it isn't everybody, of course, that does,—you can always tell what she is likely to do. But with a man—never. Do you think I know whether that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner to-night? No, not one scrap. And Kent's a man—just like the rest of them.”

“Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.”

“There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had become of him. What had he to say for himself?”

“That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.”

“Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be so very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the three mechanically watched his movements.

“There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we shall be able to see one another.”

As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little feminine thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined him quite different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of physical manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism. The artist in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and fall of muscle, scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration. Although he was dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit, which generally gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes could not conceal the evidences of a magnificent strength—deep chest, arms that seemed to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive shoulders, thick, powerful neck. He held his head high, commandingly, which gave him the appearance of tallness, although he was not much above medium height. Shortcut brown hair, clinging close to his head in crisp waves, a broad forehead with two thick vertical veins, added to this impression of strength. In spite of his thirty-four years the blood showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which there were few lines. His features, although on a large scale, were saved from coarseness by regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in keeping with the massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and lustrous, with a light burning in their depths; his teeth white and even.

“When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying that had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long since to Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of Caroline's for the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing, talking with a certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes. The time passed quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six Clytie rose in some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening with Winifred and the children. She took her leave hurriedly.

A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual, in her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them of the wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This was quite a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street arabs and grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, demanded more pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a helmet killing savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively upon her imagination, sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were scouted as being too mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It represented the same man in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of savages, transfixing one with a spear held in his left hand, whilst with a sword in his right he clove another in twain. Nothing is so fascinating to children as the grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was carried away by their enthusiasm.

Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley Street for a short time after Clytie's departure.

“So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he said. “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place, as a kind of intermittent fixture.”

“I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline.

“I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that. But, by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be found?”

“Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you go round to her studio—on her day, you know.”

“Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very emancipated.”

“They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the better.”

“I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them to be pulled up.”

“What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you were railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were having to take in to dinner.”

“I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle, and rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of young animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver than with any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat funnier, and the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape without alarming absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is distinctly 'off,' just as much as the over-emancipated.”

“Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?”

“I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes—if it pleases me.”

“Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different from any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of emancipation that give her charm, I wish there were more like her.”

“So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a theatre or a ball-room.”

“Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.”

Thornton broke into a gay laugh.

“Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!”

“Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe.

They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his watch.

“I must go and dress for dinner.”

“Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had an appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick. “It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be off now. Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over anybody.”

Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like Thornton.

“Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to the hyperbolic, like Caroline.

“Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow—and such a splendid man!”

“'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her husband.

Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife disliked it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally occasioned a distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of that were certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his remark to remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.”