solitary half-crown in his pocket, speculating with bitter
humiliation whether his hard-worked sister had yet a little to spare for
him, after all the life-blood which, leech-like, he had sucked out of
her! Nay, more, he was conscious that his distaste for this surrounding
wilderness of affluent homes, in the midst of which he had so long
dwelt as an isolated superior intelligence, had grown more marked in
direct proportion as he had become poorer and poorer.

The prosperous figure of the owner of the bow-windowed house rose before
him. Immersed in his own existence, Wyndham had deigned to notice very
few indeed of his neighbours. But old Mr. Robinson was one of the few,
not only because of the regularity with which he passed the studio every
day at six o'clock as he came home from business, but also because he
invariably bore something in a plaited rush-bag that had a skewer thrust
through it, suggesting visits to Leadenhall Market, and purchases of
game or salmon for the good wife according to season. But Mr. Robinson's
mild aspect, benevolent white beard, and gentle amble had never
impressed Wyndham with much of a sense of human fellowship. He might
concede that the old man was "a decent sort, no doubt, in his own way";
but they were creatures belonging to different planets.

Still amused at his own disdain, though the corners of his mouth were
set a trifle grimly, Wyndham turned back into the studio with the idea
of making himself presentable and going to see his sister--since it now
seemed possible to get across town without the prospect of an absolute
drenching. Happily his wardrobe had substantial resources: in the old
days he had kept it well replenished, and his simple life of late here
in the studio had made small demands on it. Thus he could still go out
faultlessly clad and shod. Nobody need suspect his poverty, he flattered
himself, if he ever chose to dip into his own world again. Only he did
not choose; there was always so much questioning to face. "We've seen
nothing of yours in the last two or three Academies--when are you going
to give us another masterpiece?" "Still on the big picture? How is it
getting along?" However genially thrown out, such usual interrogation
annoyed him beyond measure. It was so long since anything had been
"getting along." On all sides he was regarded as a doomed man, and
suspected it: suspecting it, he was morbidly sensitive. His life was
unnatural and not worth the living. M