just another few pounds for him, he
would have time to turn out a number of such decorative trifles. Such
things were in constant demand and were a sure source of livelihood. He
had stood out long enough, much longer indeed than he had had the right.
He had consistently worked on a basis of high endeavour, but now he must
withdraw his dignity and enter on the pot-boiler phase. Better that than
this abominable leech-like existence. Continued misfortune had befogged
his wits, and this last year certainly he had been half mad.

So be it! He must wake up now, and no longer lose his days in this
stupid pottering about!

Every dog had his day, and his own turn would come in time. He was an
artist. He felt it in his bones and blood. Art was his life and destiny.
He had blundered in attempting too big a feat too early in his career,
but he did not intend that that should wreck his existence. No, no! he
would never throw up the sponge. He would rather die than admit defeat,
with all those who knew him looking on at the game.

III

He dressed himself carefully to go to Mary's, trying hard not to think
of the real purpose of his visit--he had merely informed her that he
would be in the neighbourhood and would look in for a cup of tea. But,
though it was distasteful to dwell on these unending demands on her
earnings, he was anything but profligate in spending them. He had spun
out her previous five-pound note so that it had kept him going for weeks
and weeks, and he had grudged himself even a newspaper. In view of the
newly-projected work to tickle the dealers, he regretted more than ever
that he had not been able to pull himself together sooner: in these past
precious weeks he might have knocked off half a dozen of such
pretty-pretty things.

A series of omnibuses took him across London to Kensington Church, where
he descended, presently turning out of the High Street. The "Buildings"
where Mary resided were in a side alley at the back, and Wyndham made
direct for them. He walked straight in through the large front door that
stood perennially open, and followed the trail of muddy footmarks up
the worn stone stairway. On the third landing he came to a stop, and
pulled a bell half hidden in the obscurity of a corner. The door opened,
and Mary stood before him. He could not help seeing how unnaturally slim
she appeared to-day; how her simple stuff dress seemed to hang loosely
on her.

"This is so good of you. I am so