The sun went down an hour ago,     I wonder if I face towards home;
If I lost my way in the light of day
    How shall I find it now night is come?
 
—Old Song.
 
“Maisie, come to bed.”
 
“It’s so hot I can’t sleep. Don’t worry.”
 
Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and looked at the moonlight on the straight, poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur-Marne and it to the bone. The grass was dry-burnt in the meadows, the clay by the bank of the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers were long since dead, and the roses in the garden hung on their stalks. The heat in the little low bedroom under the eaves was almost intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of Kami’s studio across the road seemed to make the night hotter, and the shadow of the big bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of inky black that caught Maisie’s eye and annoyed her.
 
“Horrid thing! It should be all white,” she murmured. “And the gate isn’t in the middle of the wall, either. I never noticed that before.”
 
Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, the heat of the past few weeks had worn her down; , her work, and particularly the study of a female head intended to represent the Melancolia and not finished in time for the , was unsatisfactory; thirdly, Kami had said as much two days before; fourthly,—but so completely fourthly that it was hardly worth thinking about,—Dick, her property, had not written to her for more than six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami, and with her work, but she was exceedingly angry with Dick.
 
She had written to him three times,—each time proposing a fresh treatment of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these communications. She had resolved to write no more. When she returned to England in the autumn—for her pride’s sake she could not return earlier—she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was, “Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours,” and he had been repeating the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,—an old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt hat. But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained some trivial advice about not in the sun or drinking water at wayside ; and he had said that not once, but three times,—as if he did not know that Maisie could take care of herself.
 
But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A of voices in the road made her lean from the window. A of the little in the town was talking to Kami’s cook. The moonlight glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook’s cap cast deep shadows on her face, which was close to the conscript’s. He slid his arm round her waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss.
 
“Faugh!” said Maisie, stepping back.
 
“What’s that?” said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily outside her bed.
 
“Only a conscript kissing the cook,” said Maisie.
 
“They’ve gone away now.” She leaned out of the window again, and put a shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very small night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his thoughts from her work and his own and to the of Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its ear.
 
Dick could not, “because,” thought Maisie, “he is mine,—mine,—mine. He said he was. I’m sure I don’t care what he does. It will only spoil his work if he does; and it will spoil mine too.”
 
The rose continued to nod it the way to flowers. There was no earthly reason why Dick should not himself as he chose, except that he was called by , which was Maisie, to assist Maisie in her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that went sometimes to English exhibitions, as the notices in the scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon when Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in the future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way——The red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets. “It’s too hot to sleep,” she moaned; and the interruption jarred.
 
Exactly the same way. Then she would divide her years between the little studio in England and Kami’s big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No, she would go to another master, who should force her into the success that was her right, if patient and desperate endeavour gave one a right to anything. Dick had told her that he had worked ten years to understand his craft. She had worked ten years, and ten years were nothing. Dick had said that ten years were nothing,—but that was in regard to herself only. He had said—this very man who could not find time to write—that he would wait ten years for her, and that she was bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had said this in the absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had stopped writing. He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks. She would like to lecture him now,—not in her nightgown, of course, but properly dressed, and from a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls he certainly would not care whether she lecture him or not. He would laugh at her. Very good.
 
She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc., etc.
 
The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it might be over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind her.
 
Maisie put her chin in her hands and that there could be no doubt whatever of the villainy of Dick. To herself, she began, unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And he kissed her,—kissed her on the cheek,—by a yellow sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. Then there was an , and men had told her that they loved her—just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her. Then he had—— But there was no end to the things he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of as a stimulant,—that was rude,—sable hair-brushes,—he had given her the best in her stock,—she used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and now and again—a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress’s feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever, except—here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve of her nightgown—the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and—probably kissing other girls? “Maisie, you’ll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,” said the wearied voice of her companion. “I can’t sleep a with you at the window.”
 
Maisie her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie’s head fell forward on the window-sill, and the of black hair covered her arms.
 
“Maisie, wake up. You’ll catch a chill.”
 
“Yes, dear; yes, dear.” She staggered to her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, “I think—I think....
 
But he ought to have written.”
 
Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of the work. She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded blue eyes that saw neither pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one Binat. “You have all done not so badly,” he would say. “But you shall remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I taught,”—here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get their tubes together,—“the very so many that I have taught, the best was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,—the best of my pupils,—and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with conviction.”
 
He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to make plans for the cool of the afternoon.
 
Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter to Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami’s studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can .
 
“I beg your pardon,” said he. “It seems an absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don’t know her by any other name: Is there any young lady here that is called Maisie?”
 
“I am Maisie,” was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat.
 
“I ought to introduce myself,” he said, as the horse in the blinding white dust. “My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best friend, and—and—the fact is that he has gone blind.”
 
“Blind!” said Maisie, stupidly. “He can’t be blind.”
 
“He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.”
 
Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. “No! No! Not blind! I won’t have him blind!”
 
“Would you care to see for yourself?” said Torpenhow.
 
“Now,—at once?”
 
“Oh, no! The Paris train doesn’t go through this place till to-night. There will be ample time.”
 
“Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?”
 
“Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can’t read because he’s blind.”
 
There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a headache.
 
“Dick’s blind!” said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied herself against a chair-back. “My Dick’s blind!”
 
“What?” The girl was on the sofa no longer.
 
“A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn’t written to me for six weeks.”
 
“Are you going to him?”
 
“I must think.”
 
“Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss his eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don’t go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to him at once. Go!”
 
Torpenhow’s neck was , but he preserved a smile of infinite patience as Maisie’s appeared bareheaded in the sunshine.
 
“I am coming,” said she, her eyes on the ground.
 
“You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening.” This was an order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing with this big man who took everything for granted and managed a horse with one hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses,—very few of those,—menthol, packing, and an interview with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away.
 
Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to Dick,—Dick who owned the friend and sat in the dark playing with her unopened letters.
 
“But what will you do,” she said to her companion.
 
“I? Oh, I shall stay here and—finish your Melancolia,” she said, smiling pitifully. “Write to me afterwards.”
 
That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad Englishman, doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all the officers of the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from the lines, and had then and there eloped, after the English custom, with one of those more mad English girls who drew pictures down there under the care of that good Monsieur Kami.
 
“They are very droll,” said Suzanne to the conscript in the moonlight by the studio wall. “She walked always with those big eyes that saw nothing, and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my sister, and gives me—see—ten francs!”
 
The conscript a contribution on both gifts; for he prided himself on being a good soldier.
 
Torpenhow very little to Maisie during the journey to Calais; but he was careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the ease with which the matter had been .
 
“The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick’s showing,—when he was off his head,—she must have ordered him about very . Wonder how she likes being under orders.”
 
Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with her eyes shut, that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an order that she should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at last almost beginning to enjoy the situation. This was better than looking after luggage and a red-haired friend who never took any interest in her surroundings. But there appeared to be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie,—of all people,—was in disgrace. Therefore she her conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her on the steamer and without preface began to tell the story of Dick’s blindness, suppressing a few details, but at length on the of . He stopped before he reached the end, as though he had lost interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke. Maisie was furious with him and with herself.
 
She was hurried on from Dover to London almost before she could ask for breakfast, and—she was past any feeling of indignation now—was bidden to wait in a hall at the foot of some lead-covered stairs while Torpenhow went up to make . Again the knowledge that she was being treated like a naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. It was all Dick’s fault for being so stupid as to go blind.
 
Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he opened very softly. Dick was sitting by the window, with his chin on his chest. There were three envelopes in his hand, and he turned them over and over. The big man who gave orders was no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped behind her.
 
Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he heard the sound. “Hullo, Torp! Is that you? I’ve been so lonely.”
 
His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the blind. Maisie pressed herself up into a corner of the room. Her heart was bea............