combat, chuckled over each
good idea for the enemy's defeat; every nerve must be strained for the
great Christmas engagement; as much money as possible must be spent in
making a brave show. 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.
To-day, however, grocerdom lay heavily on his soul. On the return
journey from St. Neots he had caught a cold, and a week of sore throat
behind the counter--a week too, of quarrel with a wholesale house which
had been cheating him--left his nerves in a bad state. For reply to the
artist's cordial greeting he could only growl inarticulately.

"Out of sorts?" asked the other, as they entered the large well-warmed
studio "You look rather bad."

"Leave me alone," muttered Warburton.

"All right. Sit down here and thaw y