Fenwick was groping his way along, eastward; one moment feeling and hating the depression of the February day, of the grimy, overcrowded street; the next, responsive to some dimly beautiful effect of colour or line—­some quiver of light—­some grouping of phantom forms in the gloom.  Halfway towards the Law-Courts he was hailed and overtaken by a tall, fair-haired man.

‘Hallo, Fenwick!—­just the man I wanted to see!’

Fenwick, whose eyes—­often very troublesome of late—­were smarting with the fog, peered at the speaker, and recognised Philip Cuningham.  His face darkened a little as they shook hands.

‘What did you want me for?’

‘Did you know that poor old Watson had come back to town—­ill?’

‘No!’ cried Fenwick, arrested.  ‘I thought he was in Algiers.’

Cuningham walked on beside him, telling what he knew, Fenwick all the time dumbly vexed that this good-looking, prosperous fellow, this Academician in his new fur coat, breathing success and commissions, should know more of his best friend’s doings than he.

Watson, it appeared, had been seized with hemorrhage at Marseilles, and had thereupon given up his winter plans, and crawled home to London, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to bear the journey.  Fenwick, much troubled, protested that it was madness to have come back to the English winter.

‘No,’ said Cuningham, looking grave.  ’Better die at home than among strangers.  And I’m afraid it’s come to that, dear old fellow!’

Then he described—­with evident self-satisfaction—­how he had heard, from a common friend, of Watson’s arrival, how he had rescued the invalid from a dingy Bloomsbury hotel, and settled him in some rooms in Fitzroy Square, with a landlady who could be trusted.

’We must have a nurse before long—­but he won’t have one yet.  He wants badly to see you.  I told him I’d look you up this evening.  But this’ll do instead, won’t it?  You’ll remember?—­23, Fitzroy Square.  Shall I tell him when he may expect you?  Every day we try to get him some little pleasure or other.’

Fenwick’s irritation grew.  Cuningham was talking as though the old relation between him and Richard Watson were still intact; while Fenwick knew well how thin and superficial the bond had grown.

‘I shall go to-day,’ he said, rather shortly.  ’I have two or three things to do this morning, but there’ll be time before my rehearsal this afternoon.’

‘Your rehearsal?’ Cuningham looked amiably curious.

Fenwick explained, but with fresh annoyance.  The papers had been full enough of this venture on which he was engaged; Cuningham’s ignorance offended him.

‘Ah, indeed—­very interesting,’ said Cuningham, vaguely.  ’Well, good-bye.  I must jump into a hansom.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘The Goldsmiths’ Company are building a new Hall, and they want my advice about its decoration.  Precious difficult, though, to get away from one’s pictures, this time of year, isn’t it?’