canvas. That's the logical conclusion. Complete abstraction. Painting's
finished; he's finishing it. When he's reached pure abstraction he's
going to take up architecture. He says it's more intellectual than
painting. Do you agree?" she asked, with a final gasp.

Gombauld dropped his cigarette end and trod on it. "Tschuplitski's
finished painting," he said. "I've finished my cigarette. But I'm going
on painting." And, advancing towards her, he put his arm round her
shoulders and turned her round, away from the picture.

Mary looked up at him; her hair swung back, a soundless bell of gold.
Her eyes were serene; she smiled. So the moment had come. His arm was
round her. He moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, and she moved with
him. It was a peripatetic embracement. "Do you agree with him?" she
repeated. The moment might have come, but she would not cease to be
intellectual, serious.

"I don't know. I shall have to think about it." Gombauld loosened his
embrace, his hand dropped from her shoulder. "Be careful going down the
ladder," he added solicitously.

Mary looked round, startled. They were in front of the open door. She
remained standing there for a moment in bewilderment. The hand that
had rested on her shoulder made itself felt lower down her back; it
administered three or four kindly little smacks. Replying automatically
to its stimulus, she moved forward.

"Be careful going down the ladder," said Gombauld once more.

She was careful. The door closed behind her and she was alone in the
little green close. She walked slowly back through the farmyard; she was
pensive.

CHAPTER XIII.

Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed sheets
loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio.

"To-day," he said, exhibiting it with a certain solemnity, "to-day I
have finished the printing of my 'History of Crome'. I helped to set up
the type of the last page this evening."

"The famous History?" cried Anne. The writing and the printing of this
Magnum Opus had been going on as long as she could remember. All her
childhood long Uncle Henry's History had been a vague and fabulous
thing, often heard of and never seen.

"It has taken me nearly thirty years," said Mr. Wimbush. "Twenty-five
years of writing and nearly four of printing. And now it's finished--the
whole chronicle, from Sir Ferdinando Lapith's birth to the death of my
father William Wimbush--more than three centuries and a half: a h