Marian locked herself into the bedroom and sat down before the glass, laughing at her flushed, angry face. She was too astute to try to cajole herself into believing that Edward had really done or said anything to justify her leaving him. But in her present mood it pleased her to behave like a spoiled child. When Edward knocked at the door, asking for admission, she did not answer. She laughed again as she listened to his heavy, weary footfall going down the stairs. He would have to work out the accounts for himself; she had done with them.

She pulled out from beneath the bed her old-fashioned leather trunk and began to pack such clothes as she meant to take with her.

He sat down wearily to the books, checking them mechanically, while his mind was almost numb. He had never hesitated in his faith; it was not in him to do so; but never before had he felt so helpless. Prayer had brought softness to his anger, but as yet there was no light on the dark path ahead.

Before he left the house he went upstairs again, but, as before, obtained no answer to his knocking. From sheer habit he wrapped himself up closely, and, taking the books, went out.

Marian heard the door shut behind him, and knew that it closed on her married life.

This same day Maddison worked until the light failed, early in the afternoon, and then stood before the fire in the darkening studio, undetermined.

Marian’s intrusion into his life had rendered him dissatisfied, made him at one moment feverishly anxious for activity, at another full of longing for solitude and silence. As it chanced, the first was his present mood, but he had no engagement and did not know where to go or what to do.

It was only four o’clock. He could pay a visit to one or other of the many friends who would meet him with quick welcome, but this prosaic prospect did not allure him, nor did an afternoon of gossip or argument at the club.

It occurred to him to go and see Marian, but he resisted the insistent temptation. She had thrown him over without a word, either not wanting to see him, or wishing him to woo her; both pride and wisdom told him that he had best leave the next move to her. But if she made no move? Were there not other women equally desirable! Another Marian?

The ringing of the telephone bell broke in on his thoughts. The call was from Mortimer.

“Hullo! Is that you, George?”

“Yes.”

“I’m laid up with a sprained ankle. Can you come round for a chat? I’ve no woman for you—only tea.”

“All right.”

“At once?”

“Yes.”

A hansom bore him down quickly to the Adelphi, where Mortimer lived in a snug set of chambers overlooking the river. Maddison found him stretched out on the sofa before the fire, reading a prettily-bound, daintily-illustrated, wittily-written volume of French essays on cookery.

“Good man!” he exclaimed. “Come round to the fire. I’ve had a most lucky accident which will prevent me being able to go to the office this abominable weather and will get me out of several engagements I don’t want to keep.”

“You know you love going out!”

“No, I don’t. And as a matter of fact I don’t go out much. I used to, but I’m growing up. For one thing, people are so stupidly flippant; at best flippancy doesn’t sit well on English shoulders. You see I’m lucky: I’m an Englishman with foreign parents and a Jew for a grandfather. Do you mind ringing the bell?”

The servant brought in the tea table, which he set down beside the sofa; a bright, copper kettle was put on one trivet and a dish of hot cakes on the other.

“You old maid!” said Maddison, laughing, as he watched the trim preparations.

“That’s a compliment. An old maid is usually delightful. She has the ripeness of years without the rottenness of experience. And she’s free to do what she likes.”

“Because she hasn’t been able to do what every woman likes best; so she has to put up with the details of life.”

“Are there any details in life?” Mortimer asked.

“Yes; most important things are details.”

“I suppose you would call tea-making a detail? Three and a half minutes exactly. I hope you always drink China tea, George!”

“I never thought about it.”

“An unhappy old age is before the man who does not consider the tea he drinks? No doubt you are Vandal enough to take sugar? Art and sensibility of palate seldom go together. By the way, West’s back from his honeymoon. I had a line from him this morning. What a beggar he is for writing! He gets through more work in a day than the average man does in a week, and still has time to be married and write letters. He wants me to go down for a week-end.”

“What’s she like?”

“You saw her at the wedding.”

“Saw her. I know what she looks like—an empty-headed plaything. But you know her well, don’t you?”

“No man ever knows a woman.”

“Don’t be platitudinous.”

“I can’t always be lying. She—I really don’t know. I used to think her a devilish little flirt; in fact she was; but women do change so after they’re married. Besides, I may have been quite wrong, quite. Everyone else thought her just a simple little maiden—who knows?”

“And after all, it doesn’t really much matter. But it will take a clever woman to manage West. If she is just a doll he’ll soon grow tired of her—as he has of other dolls, whom he didn’t need to marry.”

“That’s so. We shall see. I like West. He’s such a delightful contrast to myself. How have you been jogging along? Anything new? Is the picture getting itself upon canvas?”

“Not begun!” answered Maddison, putting down his cup and lighting a cigarette.

“Refractory model, or what?”

“Just can’t get a start, that’s all. I can see it in my mind’s eye, Horatio, but—” he broke off abruptly.

They chatted on about matters indifferent, but Maddison, feeling out of tune with his companion, went away with an unwonted consciousness that he was out of tune with his life.

He lingered for a few minutes on the Terrace, looking at the picture spread before him: the blackness of the gardens below; the lamps on the Embankment and of the passing cabs and carriages; the dim mystery of the river; the black line of the railway bridge with its green and red lights; over all, the gloom and glamour of London.

Then he walked up Adam Street and so on along the noisy Strand to Charing Cross. As he walked, unconsciously directing his steps homeward, there came over him that intense feeling of loneliness that must fall at times upon any man who lives alone in London. He longed for some one, some woman, to whom he could go, with whom he could stay, in whom he could confide, from whom he could obtain the satisfying sympathy which only a woman can give to a man. There never had been one who had in any reality shared his life; he had never before suffered from the lack of such a one. But now he was hungry for intimate, human companionship and there was no one from whom he could obtain it. His thoughts turned to Marian. He realized that he did not know anything of her nature; she attracted him physically; she interested him. It did not appear unreasonable that a woman of her temperament should rebel against the circumstances of her dull, insipid life, but he wondered if it were solely against that existence that she was revolting, or was she one of those women who rebel against all restraint? Was she simply a man-hunter? A woman who lusted for pleasure, excitement, change for change’s sake? How greatly she had altered from the simple country girl she had been when he knew her first.

Or had she qualities in her which would enable her to become devoted to one man, to be happy with him? To be his comrade and ally? He must not permit sensual impulses to overthrow his reason. He must not allow Marian to become part of his life, only to find that he was not part of hers.

It is a long walk from the Strand to St. John’s Wood, and it was considerably after seven when he slipped his latchkey into the door and went into the dark studio, turning up the light as he entered. Still the sense of loneliness held him; the room, despite all its luxuriousness, appeared comfortless.

He sat down and stirred the fire into a flame; sat there, smoking and thinking.

Strength had gone out of him. During the last few days his work had failed to satisfy him: it had been labored and dull. He had never before suffered in this way. Painting had hitherto been the supreme thing in his life, but now a woman’s face was always flitting between him and the canvas. If she were with him, would it still be so? Or would she strengthen and inspire him? It was the uncertainty that disturbed him; to have and to hold her, then to find that she injured and did not aid him—that would hurt, but the wound would quickly heal, he felt sure. It would be wiser, then, to act promptly, to put an end to this state of doubt.

Supposing she rejected him? Probably she had not come to him because she did not care whether she met him again or did not. Or—it might be—she wished so dearly to see him that she could not bring herself to come to him.

He drove down to Acacia Grove.

As he strode up the crunching gravel path he saw that the parlor was in darkness, or else the curtains were very closely drawn.

If her husband were with her his visit would be in vain, save that it would show her that he was anxious to see her. His hand trembled as he knocked, and he waited anxiously for the maid’s approach.

“Is Mrs. Squire at home?”

“No, sir. She’s just gone away, sir, in a keb, with her boxes. She was a-goin’ on a wisit, she said.”

“Where to?”

“I dunno.”

He hurried away, shocked, angry. What silly trick was fate playing on him? He must write, cautiously, perhaps to find that she was gone out of his reach.

What an unutterably dreary part of the town was this in which he found himself pursuing the more or less romantic! Dingy vice and dreary respectability inextricably mingled, punctuated by blazing public houses. He hurried through the continuous stream of wayfarers, wondering if any of them knew the meaning of love. It startled him to find how intense had grown his longing for Marian, whom he thought at first he held in his hand, but who now eluded him so persistently.

A man passed him, walking rapidly in the opposite direction. Despite the dim light, he recognized Edward Squire. Then the thought came to him that perhaps Marian had come face to face with the great act of rebellion and had found her courage fail, had fled for safety. He did not believe that she would find safety; once her thirst for the fullness of life had been excited she would quench it. If he did not win her some other man would. He wanted her and would not leave anything undone to possess her.

Again and again the echo of her voice rang in his ears as he hurried along; again her face appealed to him. How glorious it would be to loosen her red-gold hair around her shoulders, to hold her close to him, looking deep into her eyes, his lips on hers; she and he alone.