‘And Madame knows?’

‘Yes.’

But Fenwick sharply regretted the introduction of Madame de Pastourelles’ name.  He had brought the story down merely to the point of Phoebe’s flight and the search which followed, adding only—­with vagueness—­that the search had lately been renewed, without success.

Watson pondered the matter for some time.  Fenwick took out his handkerchief and wiped a brow damp with perspiration.  His story—­added to the miseries of the day—­had excited and shaken him still further.

Suddenly Watson put out a hand and seized his wrist.  The grip hurt.

‘Lucky dog!’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

’You’ve lost them—­but you’ve had a woman in your arms—­a child on your knee!  You don’t go to your grave—­[Greek:  apraktos]—­an ignorant, barren fool—­like me!’

Fenwick looked at him in amazement.  Self-scorn—­bitter and passionate regret—­transformed the face beside him.  He pressed the fevered hand.

‘Watson!—­dear fellow!’

Watson withdrew his hand, and once more folded the monkey to him.

‘There are plenty of men like me,’ he muttered.  ’We are afraid of living—­and art is our refuge.  Then art takes its revenge—­and we are bad artists, because we are poor and sterilised human beings.  But you’—­he spoke with fresh energy, composing himself—­’don’t talk rot!—­as though your chance was done.  You’ll find her—­she’ll come back to you—­when she’s drunk the cup.  Healthy young women don’t die before thirty-five;—­and by your account she wasn’t bad—­she had a conscience.  The child’ll waken it.  Don’t you be hard on her!’—­he raised himself, speaking almost fiercely—­’you’ve no right to!  Take her in—­listen to her—­let her cry it out.  My God!’—­his voice dropped, as his head fell back on the pillows—­’what happiness—­what happiness!’

His eyes closed.  Fenwick stooped over him in alarm, but the thin hand closed again on his.

‘Don’t go.  What was she like?’

Fenwick asked him whether he remembered the incident of the sketch-book at their first meeting—­the drawing of the mother and child in the kitchen of the Westmoreland farm.

’Perfectly.  And she was the model for the big picture, too?  I see.  A lovely creature!  How old is she now?’

‘Thirty-six—­if she lives.’

’I tell you, she does live!  Probably more beautiful now than she was then.  Those Madonna-like women mellow so finely.  And the child? Vois-tu, Anatole!—­something superior to monkeys!’

But he pressed the little animal closer to him as he spoke.  Fenwick rose to go, conscious that he had stayed too long.  Watson looked up.

’Good-bye, old man—­courage!  Seek—­till you find.  She’s in the world—­and she’s sorry.  I could swear it.’

Fenwick stood beside him, quivering with emotion and despondency.

Their eyes met steadily, and Watson whispered: