Bertha smiled approvingly.

“I’ve just finished a portrait—­a millionaire’s wife, Lady Rockett,” went on Franks.  “Of course it was my Slummer that got me the job.  Women have been raving about that girl’s head; and it isn’t bad, though I say it.  I had to take a studio at a couple of days’ notice—­couldn’t ask Lady Rockett to come and sit at that place of mine in Battersea; a shabby hole.  She isn’t really anything out of the way, as a pretty woman; but I’ve made her—­well, you’ll see it at some exhibition this winter, if you care to.  Pleased?  Isn’t she pleased!  And her husband, the podgy old millionaire baronet, used to come every day and stare in delight.  To tell you the truth, I think it’s rather a remarkable bit of painting.  I didn’t quite know I could turn out anything so chic.  I shouldn’t be surprised if I make a specialty of women’s portraits.  How many men can flatter, and still keep a good likeness?  That’s what I’ve done.  But wait till you see the thing.”

Bertha was bubbling over with amusement; for, whilst the artist talked, she thought of Rosamund’s farewell entreaty, that she would do her best, if occasion offered, to strengthen Norbert Franks under his affliction, even by depreciatory comment on the faithless girl; there came into her mind, too, those many passages of Rosamund’s letters where Franks was spoken of in terms of profoundest compassion mingled with dark remorse.  Perhaps her smile, which quivered on the verge of laughter, betrayed the nature of her thought.  Of a sudden, Franks ceased to talk; his countenance changed, overcast with melancholy; and when, after some moments’ silence, Bertha again spoke of the landscape, he gave only a dull assent to her words.

“And it all comes too late,” fell from him, presently.  “Too late.”

“Your success?”

“What’s the good of it to me?” He smote his leg with the rattan he was swinging.  “A couple of years ago, money would have meant everything.  Now—­what do I care about it!”

Bertha’s surprise obliged her to keep an unnaturally solemn visage.

“Don’t you think it’ll grow upon you,” she said, “if you give it time?”

“Grow upon me?  Why, I’m only afraid it may.  That’s just the danger.  To pursue success—­vulgar success—­when all the better part has gone out of life—­”

He ended on a sigh and again whacked his leg with the stick.

“But” urged his companion, as though gravely, “isn’t it easy not to pursue success?  I mean if it really makes you uncomfortable.  There are so many kinds of work in art which would protect you against the perils of riches.”

Franks was watching her as she spoke.

“Miss Cross” he said, “I suspect you are satirical.  I remember you used to have a turn that way.  Well, well, never mind; I don’t expect you to understand me.”

They had passed out of Ashtead Park and were now ascending by the lane which leads up to Epsom Common.