CHAPTER 27

Toward ten o’clock that evening, Warburton alighted from a train at Notting Hill Gate, and walked through heavy rain to the abode of Norbert Franks.  With satisfaction, he saw the light at the great window of his studio, and learnt from the servant who admitted him that Franks had no company.  His friend received him with surprise, so long was it since Warburton had looked in unexpectedly.

“Nothing amiss?” said Franks, examining the hard-set face, with its heavy eyes, and cheeks sunken.

“All right.  Came to ask for news, that’s all.”

“News?  Ah, I understand.  There’s no news.”

“Still reflecting?”

“Yes.  Keeping away, just to see how I like it.  Sensible that, don’t you think?”

Warburton nodded.  The conversation did not promise much vivacity, for Franks looked tired, and the visitor seemed much occupied with his own thoughts.  After a few words about a canvas which stood on the easel—­another woman the artist was boldly transforming into loveliness—­Will remarked carelessly that he had spent the day at Ashtead.

“By Jove, I ought to go and see those people,” said Franks.

“Better wait a little, perhaps,” returned the other with a smile.  “Miss Elvan is with them.”

“Ah!  Lucky you told me—­not that it matters much,” added Franks, after a moment’s reflection, “at all events as far as I’m concerned.  But it might be a little awkward for her.  How long is she staying?”

Will told all he knew of Miss Elvan’s projects.  He went on to say that she seemed to him more thoughtful, more serious, than in the old time; to be sure, she had but recently lost her father, and the subduing influence of that event might have done her good.

“You had a lot of talk?” said Franks.

“Oh, we gossiped in the garden.  Poor old Pomfret has his gout, and couldn’t come out with us.  What do you think, by the bye, of her chance of living by art?  She says she’ll have to.”

“By that, or something else, no doubt,” Franks replied disinterestedly.  “I know her father had nothing to leave, nothing to make an income.”

“Are her water-colours worth anything?”

“Not much, I’m afraid, I can’t quite see her living by anything of that sort.  She’s the amateur, pure and simple.  Now, Bertha Cross—­ there’s the kind of girl who does work and gets paid for it.  In her modest line, Bertha is a real artist.  I do wish you knew her, Warburton.”

“So you have said a good many times,” remarked Will.  “But I don’t see how it would help you.  I know Miss Elvan, and—­”

He paused, as if musing on a thought.

“And what?” asked Franks impatiently.

“Nothing—­except that I like her better than I used to.”

As he spoke, he stood up.

“Well, I can’t stay.  It’s raining like the devil.  I wanted to know whether you’d done anything decisive, that’s all.”