“And it is certain to bring you more,” remarked Will, “perhaps considerably more.”

" Well, I shan’t object to that; there are lots of uses for money; but it doesn’t matter.”

Jane’s sincerity was evident.  She dismissed the matter, and her basket being full of beans, seized a fork to dig potatoes.

“Here, let me do that,” cried Will, interposing.

“You?  Well then, as a very great favour.”

“Of course I mean that.  It’s grand to turn up potatoes.  What sort are these?”

“Pink-eyed flukes,” replied Jane, watching him with keen interest.  “We haven’t touched them yet.”

“Mealy, eh?”

“Balls of flour!”

Their voices joined in a cry of exultation, as the fork threw out even a finer root than they had expected.  When enough had been dug, they strolled about, looking at other vegetables.  Jane pointed to some Savoy seedlings, which she was going to plant out to-day.  Then there sounded a joyous bark, and Pompey came bounding toward them.

“That means the milk-boy is here,” said Jane.  “Pompey always goes to meet him in the morning.  Come and drink a glass—­warm.”

CHAPTER 10

Back at Chelsea, Will sent a note to Norbert Franks, a line or two without express reference to what had happened, asking him to come and have a talk.  Three days passed, and there was no reply.  Will grew uneasy; for, though the artist’s silence perhaps meant only sullenness, danger might lurk in such a man’s thwarted passion.  On the fourth evening, just as he had made up his mind to walk over to Queen’s Road, the familiar knock sounded.  Mrs. Hopper had left; Will went to the door, and greeted his visitor in the usual way.  But Franks entered without speaking.  The lamplight showed a pitiful change in him; he was yellow and fishy-eyed, unshaven, disorderly in dress indeed, so well did he look the part of the despairing lover that Warburton suspected a touch of theatric consciousness.

“If you hadn’t come to-night,” said Will, “I should have looked you up.”

Franks lay limply in the armchair, staring blankly.

“I ought to have come before,” he replied in low, toneless voice.  “That night when I met you, I made a fool of myself.  For one thing, I was drunk, and I’ve been drunk ever since.”

“Ha!  That accounts for your dirty collar,” remarked Will, in his note of dry drollery.

“Is it dirty?” said the other, passing a finger round his neck.  “What does it matter?  A little dirt more or less, in a world so full of it—­”

Warburton could not contain himself; he laughed, and laughed again.  And his mirth was contagious; Franks chuckled, unwillingly, dolefully.

“You are not extravagant in sympathy,” said the artist, moving with fretful nervousness.

“If I were, would it do you any good, old fellow?  Look here, are we to talk of this affair or not?  Just as you like.  For my part, I’d rather talk about ‘The Slummer.’  I had a look at it the other day.  Uncommonly good, the blackguard on the curbstone, you’ve got him.”