“My honour is involved, or I would give the case up.”

“He is very trying, poor Nicholas!  He always had that peculiar quality of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times.  There is opposition in our blood; my family all have it.  My eldest brother died of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the form of doing the right thing in the wrong place.  It is a matter of temperament, you see.  You must have patience.”

“Patience,” repeated Dawney’s voice, “is one thing; patience where there is responsibility is another.  I’ve not had a wink of sleep these last two nights.”

There was a faint, shrill swish of silk.

“Is he so very ill?”

Christian held her breath.  The answer came at last.

“Has he made his will?  With this trouble in the side again, I tell you plainly, Mrs. Decie, there’s little or no chance.”

Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air.  What was she about to do, then—­to leave him dying!

On the following day Harz was summoned to the Villa.  Mr. Treffry had just risen, and was garbed in a dressing-suit, old and worn, which had a certain air of magnificence.  His seamed cheeks were newly shaved.

“I hope I see you well,” he said majestically.

Thinking of the drive and their last parting, Harz felt sorry and ashamed.  Suddenly Christian came into the room; she stood for a moment looking at him; then sat down.

“Chris!” said Mr. Treffry reproachfully.  She shook her head, and did not move; mournful and intent, her eyes seemed full of secret knowledge.

Mr. Treffry spoke: 

“I’ve no right to blame you, Mr. Harz, and Chris tells me you came to see me first, which is what I would have expected of you; but you shouldn’t have come back.”

“I came back, sir, because I found I was obliged.  I must speak out.”

“I ask nothing better,” Mr. Treffry replied.

Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her chin resting on her hands.

“I have come for her,” he said; “I can make my living—­enough for both of us.  But I can’t wait.”

“Why?”

Harz made no answer.

Mr. Treffry boomed out again:  “Why?  Isn’t she worth waiting for?  Isn’t she worth serving for?”

“I can’t expect you to understand me,” the painter said.  “My art is my life to me.  Do you suppose that if it wasn’t I should ever have left my village; or gone through all that I’ve gone through, to get as far even as I am?  You tell me to wait.  If my thoughts and my will aren’t free, how can I work?  I shan’t be worth my salt.  You tell me to go back to England—­knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand miles away.  I shall know that there’s a death fight going on in her and outside her against me—­you think that I can go on working under these conditions.  Others may be able, I am not.  That’s the plain truth.  If I loved her less—­”