“I’m afraid he’s worried about her,” said the landlady, when she had lit the gas, and stood with Warburton surveying the picture.  “He can’t find a model good-looking enough.  I say to Mr. Franks why not make it the portrait of his own young lady?  I’m sure she’s good-looking enough for anything and—­”

Whilst speaking, the woman had turned to look at a picture on the wall.  Words died upon her lips; consternation appeared in her face; she stood with finger extended.  Warburton, glancing where he was accustomed to see the portrait of Rosamund Elvan, also felt a shock.  For, instead of the face which should have smiled upon him, he saw an ugly hole in the picture, the canvas having been violently cut, or rent with a blow.

“Hallo!  What the deuce has he been doing?”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the landlady.  “It must be himself that’s done it!  What does that mean now, I wonder?”

Warburton was very uneasy.  He no longer doubted that Franks had purposely avoided him this afternoon.

“I daresay,” he added, with a pretence of carelessness, “the portrait had begun to vex him.  He’s often spoken of it discontentedly, and talked of painting another.  It wasn’t very good.”

Accepting, or seeming to accept this explanation, the landlady withdrew, and Will paced thoughtfully about the floor.  He was back in Switzerland, in the valley which rises to the glacier of Trient.  Before him rambled Ralph Pomfret and his wife; at his side was Rosamund Elvan, who listened with a flattering air of interest to all he said, but herself spoke seldom, and seemed, for the most part, preoccupied with some anxiety.  He spoke of Norbert Franks; Miss Elvan replied mechanically, and at once made a remark about the landscape.  At the time, he had thought little of this; now it revived in his memory, and disturbed him.

An hour passed.  His patience was nearly at an end.  He waited another ten minutes, then left the room, called to the landlady that he was going, and let himself out.

Scarcely had he walked half a dozen yards, when he stood face to face with Franks.

“Ah!  Here you are!  I waited as long as I could—­”

“I’ll walk with you,” said the artist, turning on his heels.

He had shaken hands but limply.  His look avoided Warburton’s.  His speech was flat, wearied.

“What’s wrong, Franks?”

“As you’ve been in the studio, I daresay you know.”

“I saw something that surprised me.”

“Did it surprise you?” asked Norbert, in a half-sullen undertone.

“What do you mean by that?” said Will with subdued resentment.

The rain had ceased; a high wind buffeted them as they went along the almost deserted street.  The necessity of clutching at his hat might have explained Norbert’s silence for a moment; but he strode on without speaking.

“Of course, if you don’t care to talk about it,” said Will, stopping short.