And it
was only by pausing every now and then to remember _why_ he stood
here, in what cause he was so debasing the manner of his life, that
Warburton could find strength to go through such a trial of body and
of spirit. When, the Christmas fight well over, with manifest
triumph on his side he went down for a couple of days to St. Neots,
once more he had his reward. But the struggle was telling upon his
health; it showed in his face, in his bearing. Mother and sister
spoke uneasily of a change they noticed; surely he was working too
hard; what did he mean by taking no summer holiday? Will laughed.
"Business, business! A good deal to do at first, you know. Things'll
be smoother next year."
And the comfort, the quiet, the simple contentment of that little
house by the Ouse, sent him back to Fulham Road, once more resigned,
courageous.
Naturally, he sometimes contrasted his own sordid existence with the
unforeseen success which had made such changes in the life of
Norbert Franks. It was more than three months since he and Franks
had met, when, one day early in January, he received a note from the
artist. "What has become of you? I haven't had a chance of getting
your way--work and social foolery. Could you come and lunch with
me here, on Sunday, alone, like the old days? I have a portrait to
show you." So on Sunday, Warburton went to his friend's new studio,
which was in the Holland Park region. Formerly it was always he who
played the host, and he did not like this change of positions; but
Franks, however sensible of his good luck, and inclined at times to
take himself rather seriously, had no touch of the snob in his
temper; when with him, Will generally lost sight of unpleasant
things in good-natured amusement.
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