“Well, but,” persisted Franks, “your impression—­your feeling.  How does the thing strike you?”

“Why, disagreeably enough; that’s a matter of course.”

“You don’t excuse her?” asked Norbert, his eyes fixed on the other.

“I can imagine excuses—­”

“What?  What excuse can there be for deliberate hypocrisy, treachery?”

“If it was deliberate,” replied Warburton, “there’s nothing to be said.  In your position—­since you ask advice—­I should try to think that it wasn’t, but that the girl had simply changed her mind, and went on and on, struggling with herself till she could stand it no longer.  I’ve no taste for melodrama quiet comedy is much more in my line—­comedy ending with mutual tolerance and forgiveness.  To be sure, if you feel you can’t live without her, if you’re determined to fight for her—­”

“Fight with whom?” cried Franks.

“With her; then read Browning, and blaze away.  It may be the best; who can tell?  Only—­on this point I am clear—­no self-deception!  Don’t go in for heroics just because they seem fine.  Settle with yourself whether she is indispensable to you or not.—­ Indispensable? why, no woman is that to any man; sooner or later, it’s a matter of indifference.  And if you feel, talking plainly with yourself, that the worst is over already, that it doesn’t after all matter as much as you thought; why, get back to your painting.  If you can paint only ugly women, so much the better, I’ve no doubt.”

Franks stood reflecting.  Then he nodded.

“All that is sensible enough.  But, if I give her up, I shall marry some one else straight away.”

Then he abruptly said good-night, leaving Warburton not unhopeful about him, and much consoled by the disappearance of the shadow which had threatened their good understanding.

CHAPTER 11

The Crosses, mother and daughter, lived at Walham Green.  The house was less pleasant than another which Mrs. Cross owned at Putney, but it also represented a lower rental, and poverty obliged them to take this into account.  When the second house stood tenantless, as had now been the case for half a year, Mrs. Cross’ habitually querulous comment on life rose to a note of acrimony very afflictive to her daughter Bertha.  The two bore as little resemblance to each other, physical or mental, as mother and child well could.  Bertha Cross was a sensible, thoughtful girl, full of kindly feeling, and blest with a humorous turn that enabled her to see the amusing rather than the carking side of her pinched life.  These virtues she had from her father.  Poor Cross, who supplemented a small income from office routine by occasional comic journalism, and even wrote a farce (which brought money to a theatrical manager), made on his deathbed a characteristic joke.  He had just signed his will, and was left alone with his wife.  “I’m sure I’ve, always wished to make your life happy,” piped the afflicted woman.  “And I yours,” he faintly answered; adding, with a sad, kind smile, as he pointed to the testamentary document, “Take the will for the deed.”