'That's exactly what Dick has done,' said Torpenhow. 'Wait till he comes
back. In the meantime, you can begin your slating here. I'll show you
some of his last and worst work in his studio.'

Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of
mind. He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of
the Thames through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by
thinking of Torpenhow's advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the
study of the faces flocking past. Some had death written on their
features, and Dick marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy and
coarse-built for the most part, were alight with love; others were merely
drawn and lined with work; but there was something, Dick knew, to be
made out of them all. The poor at least should suffer that he might learn,
and the rich should pay for the output of his learning. Thus his credit in
the world and his cash balance at the bank would be increased. So much
the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take toll of the ills of
others.

The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red
wafer, on the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the
tide between the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl
hard pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, 'Ah, get away, you beast!'

and a shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick's
face the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He
was blinded for the moment, then spun round and found himself face to
face with--Maisie.

There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a woman, but
they had not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the