But occasionally, when she least expected it, he would speak with glowing enthusiasm on art; then his eyes seemed to become bright, and his bent figure more erect, and his whole bearing proud and dignified.  There were times, too, when he would speak on other subjects:  on the morality of free thought—­on Bruno, of blessed memory, on him, and scores of others too.  He would speak of the different schools of philosophy; he would laugh at himself, and at all who, having given time and thought to the study of life’s complicated problems, had not reached one step further than the Old-World thinkers.  Perhaps he would quote one of his favourite philosophers, and then suddenly relapse into silence, returning to his wonted abstraction and to his indifference to his surroundings.  Helen Stanley had learned to understand his ways and to appreciate his mind, and, without intruding on him in any manner, had put herself gently into his life as his quiet champion and his friend.  No one in her presence dared speak slightingly of the old man, or to make fun of his tumble-down appearance, or of his worn-out silk hat with a crack in the side, or of his rag of a black tie, which, together with his overcoat, had “seen better days.”  Once she brought her needle and thread, and darned the torn sleeve during her lunch-time; and, though he never knew it, it was a satisfaction to her to have helped him.

To-day she noticed that he was painting badly, and that he seemed to take no interest in his work; but she went on busily with her own picture, and was so engrossed in it that she did not at first observe that he had packed up his brushes and was preparing to go home.

“Three more strokes,” he said, quietly, “and you will have finished your picture.  I shall never finish mine; perhaps you will be good enough to set it right for me.  I am not coming here again.  I don’t seem to have caught the true expression; what do you think?  But I am not going to let it worry me, for I am sure you will promise to do your best for me.  See, I will hand over these colours and these brushes to you, and no doubt you will accept the palette as well.  I have no further use for it.”

Helen Stanley took the palette which he held out toward her, and looked at him as though she would wish to question him.

“It is very hot here,” he continued, “and I am going out.  I am tired of work.”

He hesitated, and then added, “I should like you to come with me, if you can spare the time.”

She packed up her things at once, and the two friends moved slowly away, he gazing absently at the pictures, and she wondering in her mind as to the meaning of his strange mood.

When they were on the steps inside the building, he turned to Helen Stanley and said: 

“I should like to go back to the pictures once more.  I feel as if I must stand among them just a little longer.  They have been my companions for so long that they are almost part of myself.  I can close my eyes and recall them faithfully.  But I want to take a last look at them; I want to feel once more the presence of the great masters, and to refresh my mind with their genius.  When I look at their work I think of their life, and can only wonder at their death.  It was so strange that they should die.”