im laugh, in the slightly sonorous painting-room, as he bent over one
of the old canvases that he had ventured to turn to the light. He was
fully determined, however, to master his correspondence before going
down, the last thing before Parliament should reassemble, to spend
another day at Beauclere. Mastering his correspondence meant, in Nick's
mind, breaking open envelopes; writing answers was scarcely involved in
the idea. But Mr. Carteret would never guess that. Nick was not moved
even to write to him that the affair with Julia was on the point of
taking the form he had been so good as to desire: he reserved the
pleasure of this announcement for a personal interview.

The day before Good Friday, in the morning, his stillness was broken by
a rat-tat-tat on the outer door of his studio, administered apparently
by the knob of a walking-stick. His servant was out and he went to the
door, wondering who his visitor could be at such a time, especially of
the rather presuming class. The class was indicated by the visitor's
failure to look for the bell--since there _was_ a bell, though it
required a little research. In a moment the mystery was solved: the
gentleman who stood smiling at him from the threshold could only be
Gabriel Nash. Nick had not seen this whimsical personage for several
months, and had had no news of him beyond a general intimation that he
was following his fancy in foreign parts. His old friend had
sufficiently prepared him, at the time of their reunion in Paris, for
the idea of the fitful in intercourse; and he had not been ignorant, on
his return from Paris, that he should have had an opportunity to miss
him if he had not been too busy to take advantage of it. In London,
after the episode at Harsh, Gabriel had not reappeared: he had redeemed
none of the pledges given the night they walked together to Notre Dame
and conversed on important matters. He was to have interposed in Nick's
destiny, but he had not interposed; he was to have pulled him hard and
in the opposite sense from Julia, but there had been no pulling; he was
to have saved him, as he called it, and yet Nick was lost. This
circumstance indeed formed his excuse: the member for Harsh had rushed
so wantonly to perdition. Nick had for the hour seriously wished to keep
hold of him: he valued him as a salutary influence. Yet on coming to his
senses after his election our young man had recognised that Nash might
very well have reflected on the than