“You speak dismally,” she answered, smiling.

“I missed you yesterday,” he continued, half dreamily.  “I left my work, and I wandered through the rooms, and I did not even read Lucretius.  Something seemed to have gone from my life.  At first I thought it must be my favourite Raphael, or the Murillo; but it was neither the one nor the other; it was you.  That was strange, wasn’t it?  But you know we get accustomed to anything, and perhaps I should have missed you less the second day, and by the end of a week I should not have missed you at all.  Mercifully, we have in us the power of forgetting.”

“I do not wish to plead for myself,” she said, “but I do not believe that you or any one could really forget.  That which outsiders call forgetfulness might be called by the better name of resignation.”

“I don’t care about talking any more now,” he said, suddenly, and he went to his easel and worked silently at his picture; and Helen Stanley glanced at him, and thought she had never seen her old companion look so forlorn and desolate as he did to-day.  He looked as if no gentle hand had ever been placed on him in kindliness and affection, and that seemed to her a terrible thing; for she was one of those prehistorically minded persons who persist in believing that affection is as needful to human life as rain to flower life.  When first she came to work at the gallery—­some twelve months ago—­she had noticed this old man, and had wished for his companionship; she was herself lonely and sorrowful, and, although young, had to fight her own battles, and had learned something of the difficulties of fighting, and this had given her an experience beyond her years.  She was not more than twenty-four years of age, but she looked rather older, and, though she had beautiful eyes, full of meaning and kindness, her features were decidedly plain as well as unattractive.  There were some in the gallery who said among themselves that, as Mr. Lindall had waited so many years before talking to any one, he might have chosen some one better worth the waiting for!  But they soon became accustomed to seeing Helen Stanley and Mr. Lindall together, and they laughed less than before; and meanwhile the acquaintance ripened into a sort of friendship, half sulky on his part and wholly kind on her part.  He told her nothing about himself, and he asked nothing about herself; for weeks he never even knew her name.  Sometimes he did not speak at all, and the two friends would work silently side by side until it was time to go; and then he waited until she was ready, and walked with her across Trafalgar Square, where they parted and went their own ways.