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.
"I've been walking about all day," Franks replied; "and I've got
hell inside me; I'd rather not have met you to-night, that's the
truth. But I can't let you go without asking a plain question. _Did_
it surprise you to see that portrait smashed?"
"Very much. What do you hint at?"
"I had a letter this morning from Rosamund, saying she couldn't
marry me, and that all must be over between us. Does _that_ surprise
you?"
"Yes, it does. Such a possibility had never entered my mind.
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