had come in, and certainly it had served her well.

It was this community of injury, then, that primarily drew Dick's
attention to Frank; and, when once it lead been so drawn, it lingered on
other points in his personality. Artistic Stoicism is a very satisfying
ideal so long as things go tolerably well. It affords an excellent
protection against such misfortunes as those of not being appreciated or
of losing money or just missing a big position--against all such ills as
affect bodily or mental conveniences. But when the heart is touched,
Artistic Stoicism peels off like rusted armour. Dick had seriously began
to consider, during the last few days, whether the exact opposite of
Artistic Stoicism (let us call it Natural Impulsiveness) is not almost
as good an equipment. He began to see something admirable in Frank's
attitude to life, and the more he regarded it the more admirable it
seemed.

Frank, therefore, had begun to wear to him the appearance of something
really moving and pathetic. He had had a communication or two from Jack
Kirkby that had given him a glimpse of what Frank was going through, and
his own extremely artificial self was beginning to be affected by it.

* * * * *

He looked round his room now, once or twice, wondering whether it was
all worth while. He had put his whole soul into these rooms--there was
that Jacobean press with the grotesque heads--ah! how long he had
agonized over that in the shop in the King's Road, Chelsea, wondering
whether or not it would do just what he wanted, in that space between
the two doors. There was that small statue of a Tudor lady in a square
head-dress that he had bought in Oxford: he had occupied at least a week
in deciding exactly from what point she was to smile on him; there was
the new curtain dividing the two rooms: he had had half a dozen
patterns, gradually eliminated down to two, lying over his sofa-back for
ten days before he could make up his mind. (How lovely it looked, by the
way, just now, with that patch of mellow London sunlight lying across
the folds!)

But was it all worth it?... He argued the point with himself, almost
passively, stroking his brown beard meditatively; but the fact that he
could argue it at all showed that the foundations of his philosophy were
shaken.

Well, then ... Frank ... What about him? Where was he?

(II)

About eleven o'clock a key turned in his outer door and a very
smart-looking p