“What is it?” he asked bluntly, on entering the studio.

“Wanted a talk, that was all,” replied his friend.  “Hope I haven’t disturbed you.  You told me, you remember, that you preferred coming here.”

“All right.  I thought you might have news for me.”

“Well,” said Franks, smiling at the smoke of his cigarette, “there’s perhaps something of the sort.”

The other regarded him keenly.

“You’ve done it.”

“No—­o—­o; not exactly.  Sit down; you’re not in a hurry?  I went to Walham Green a few days ago, but Bertha wasn’t at home.  I saw her mother.  They’re going away for a fortnight, to Southwold, and I have a sort of idea that I may run down there.  I half promised.”

Will nodded, and said nothing.

“You disapprove?  Speak plainly, old man.  What’s your real objection?  Of course I’ve noticed before now that you have an objection.  Out with it!”

“Have you seen Miss Elvan again?”

“No.  Have you?”

“Two or three times.”

Franks was surprised.

“Where?”

“Oh, we’ve had some walks together.”

“The deuce you have!” cried Franks, with a laugh.

“Don’t you want to know what we talked about,” pursued Warburton, looking at him with half-closed eyelids.  “Principally about you.”

“That’s very flattering—­but perhaps you abused me?”

“On the whole, no.  Discussed you, yes, and in considerable detail, coming to the conclusion that you were a very decent fellow, and we both of us liked you very much.”

Franks laughed gaily, joyously.

“Que vous etes aimables, tous-les-deux!  You make me imagine I’m back in Paris.  Must I round a compliment in reply?”

“That’s as you like.  But first I’ll tell you the upshot of it all, as it shapes itself to me.  Hasn’t it even dimly occurred to you that, under the circumstances, it would be—­well, say a graceful thing—­to give that girl a chance of changing her mind again?”

“What—­Rosamund?”

“It never struck you?”

“But, hang it all, Warburton!” exclaimed the artist.  “How should I have thought of it?  You know very well—­and then, it’s perfectly certain she would laugh at me.”

“It isn’t certain at all.  And, do you know, it almost seems to me a point of honour.”

“You’re not serious?  This is one of your solemn jokes—­such as you haven’t indulged in lately.”

“No, no.  Listen,” said Will, with a rigid earnestness on his face as he bent forward in the chair.  “She is poor, and doesn’t know how she’s going to live.  You are flourishing, and have all sorts of brilliant things before you; wouldn’t it be a generous thing—­the kind of thing one might expect of a fellow with his heart in the right place—?  You understand me?”

Franks rounded his eyes in amazement.

“But—­am I to understand that she expects it?”