“But why come here?” Lady Tamworth urged.  “You might have gone into the country—­anywhere.”

“No, no, no!” he answered, setting down the cake and pacing about the room.  “Wherever else I went, I must have formed new ties, created new duties.  I didn’t want that; one’s feelings form the ties, one’s soul pays the duties.  No, London is the only place where a man can disappear.  Besides I had to do something, and I chose this work, because it didn’t touch me.  I could throw it off the moment it was done.  In the shop I earn the means to live; I live here.”

“But what kind of a life is it?” she asked in despair.

“I will tell you,” he replied, sinking his tone to an eager whisper; “but you mustn’t repeat it, you must keep it a secret.  When I am in this room alone at night, the walls widen and widen away until at last they vanish,” and he nodded mysteriously at her.  “The roof curls up like a roll of parchment, and I am left on an open platform.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Lady Tamworth.

“Yes, on an open platform underneath the stars.  And do you know,” he sank his voice yet lower, “I hear them at times; very faintly of course,—­their songs have so far to travel; but I hear them,—­yes, I hear the stars.”

Lady Tamworth rose in a whirl of alarm.  Before this crazy exaltation, her very desire to pursue her purpose vanished.  For Julian’s manner even more than his words contributed to her fears.  In spite of his homily, emotion was dominant in his expression, swaying his body, burning on his face and lighting his eyes with a fire of changing colours.  And every note in his voice was struck within the scale of passion.

She glanced about the room; her eyes fell on the easel.  “Don’t you ever paint?” she asked hurriedly.

He dropped his head and stood shifting from one foot to the other, as if he was ashamed.  “At times,” he said hesitatingly; “at times I have to,—­I can’t help it,—­I have to express myself.  Look!” He stepped suddenly across the room and slid the curtains back along the rail.  The wall was frescoed from floor to ceiling.

“Julian!” Lady Tamworth cried.  She forgot all her fears in face of this splendid revelation of his skill.  Here was the fulfilment of his promise.

In the centre four pictures were ranged, the stages in the progress of an allegory, but executed with such masterful craft and of so vivid an intention that they read their message straightway into the heart of one’s understanding.  Round about this group, were smaller sketches, miniatures of pure fancy.  It seemed as if the artist had sought relief in painting these from the pressure of his chief design.  Here, for instance, Day and Night were chasing one another through the rings of Saturn; there a swarm of silver stars was settling down through the darkness to the earth.

“Julian, you must come back.  You can’t stay here.”

“I don’t mean to stay here long.  It is merely a halting-place.”