although hugh massinger had reached the cynical age of thirty-seven, he had been so well treated by the press and the public, that he had no cause to develop a sneer. his essential self-satisfaction saved him from being bored, for to be very pleased with oneself is to be pleased with life in general. his appetites were still ready to be piqued, and he had the same exotic delight in colour that he had had when he was an undergraduate of twenty, and this reaction to colour is one of the subtlest tests of a man’s vitality. when the sex stimulus weakens, when a man becomes even a little disillusioned and a little bored, he no longer thrills to colours. it is a sign that the youth in him is growing grey.

hugh massinger’s senses were abnormally excitable. he was city bred, and a sitter in chairs, and a lounger upon lounges, and his ideas upon flowers, woods, fields and the country in general were utterly false, hectic and artificial. he was the sort of sentimentalist who was always talking of the “beautiful intrigues of the plants,” of “the red lust of june,” and the “swelling bosom of august.” his art was a sexual art. his thoughts lay about on cushions, and he never played any kind of game.

about this time eve discovered that his sentimentality was growing more demonstrative. it was like a yellow dog that fawned round and round her chair, but seemed a little afraid of coming too near. he took a great deal of trouble in trying to make her talk about herself, and in thrusting a syrupy sympathy upon her.

“you are looking tired to-day,” he would say, “i shan’t let you work.”

she would protest that she was not tired.

“really, i am nothing of the kind.”

“and i have quick eyes. it is that horrible reading-room full of fustiness and indigence. i am ashamed to to send you there.”

she would laugh and study to be more conventional.

“mr. massinger, i am a very healthy young woman, and the work interests me.”

“my work?”

“yes.”

“that is really sweet of you. i like to think your woman’s hands have dabbled in it. tell me, haven’t you any ambitions of your own—any romantic schemes?”

“oh, i paint a little in my spare time!”

“the mysteries of colour. you are a vestal, and your colour dreams must be very pure. supposing we talk this afternoon, and let work alone? and adolf shall make us coffee.”

adolf made excellent coffee, and in the oak court-cupboard massinger kept liqueur glasses and bottles of choice liqueur. it was a harmless sort of æsthetic wickedness, a little accentuated by occasional doses of opium or cannabis indica. eve would take the coffee, but she could never be persuaded to touch the benedictine. it reminded her of massinger’s moonish and intriguing eyes.

at that time she thought of him as a sentimental ass, a man with a fine brain and no common sense. she posed more and more as a very conventional young woman, pretending to be a little shocked by his views of life, and meeting his suggestive friendliness with british obtuseness. she gave him back ruskin, the bensons and carlyle when he talked of wilde. and yet this pose of hers piqued massinger all the more sharply, though she did not suspect it. he talked to himself of “educating her,” of “reforming her taste,” and of “teaching her to be a little more sympathetic towards the sweet white frailties of life.”

early in december kate’s last evening came, and eve spent it with her in the bloomsbury rooms. there were the last odds and ends of packing to be done, the innumerable little feminine necessaries to be stowed away in the corners of the “steamer” trunks. eve helped, and her more feminine mind offered a dozen suggestions to her more practical friend. kate duveen was not a papier poudre woman. she did not travel with a bagful of sacred little silver topped boxes and bottles, and her stockings were never anything else but black.

“have you got any hazeline and methylated spirit?”

“no.”

“you must get some on the way to the station. or i’ll get them in the morning. and have you plenty of thick veiling?”

“my complexion is the last thing i ever think of.”

“you have not forgotten the dictionaries, though.”

“no, nor my notebooks and stylo.”

they had supper together, and then sat over the fire with their feet on the steel fender. kate duveen had become silent. she was thinking of james canterton, and the way he had walked into her room that evening.

“eve!”

“yes!”

“i am going to break a promise in order to keep a promise. i think i am justified.”

“what is it?”

“he came here to see me one evening about two months ago.”

“whom do you mean?”

“james canterton.”

“and you didn’t tell me!”

“he asked me to promise not to tell, and i liked him for it. i was rather astonished, and i snapped at him. he took it like a big dog. but he asked me to promise something else.”

“what was it?”

“that if ever things were to go badly with you, i would let him know.”

she glanced momentarily at eve and found that she was staring at the fire, her lips parted slightly, as though she were about to smile, and her eyes were full of a light that was not the mere reflection of the fire. her whole face had softened, and become mysteriously radiant.

“that was like him.”

“then i may keep my promise?”

“yes.”

“i think i can trust you both.”

eve said nothing.

she saw kate off in her cab next morning before going to her work at the museum. they held hands, but did not kiss.

“i’m so glad that you’ve had this good luck. you deserve it.”

“nonsense. write; and remember that promise.”

“i hope there will be no need for you to keep it. good-bye, dear! you’ve been so very good to me.”

she was very sad when kate had gone, and in the great reading-room such a rush of loneliness came over her that she had but little heart for work. she fell to thinking of canterton, and of the work they had done together, and the thought of hugh massinger and that flat of his in purbeck street made her feel that life had cheapened and deteriorated. there was something unwholesome about the man and his art. it humiliated her to think that sincerity had thrust this meaner career upon her.

punctually at two o’clock she rang the bell of the flat in purbeck street. adolf admitted her. she disliked adolf’s smile. it was a recent development, and it struck her as being latently offensive.

hugh massinger was curled up on the lounge, reading one of shaw’s plays. he loathed shaw, but read him as a dog worries something that it particularly detests. he sat up, his moonish eyes smiling, and eve realised for the first time that his eyes and adolf’s were somewhat alike.

she sat down at the table, and began to arrange her notebooks.

“you look triste to-day.”

“do i?”

“i am growing very understanding towards your moods.”

she caught the challenge on the shield of a casual composure.

“i lost a friend this morning.”

“not by death?”

“oh, no! she has gone abroad. one does not like losing the only friend one has in london.”

he leaned forward with a gesture of protest.

“now you have hurt me.”

“hurt you, mr. massinger!”

“i thought that i was becoming something of a friend.”

she made herself look at him with frank, calm eyes.

“it had not occurred to me. i really am very much obliged to you. shall i begin to read out my notes?”

he did not answer for a moment, but remained looking at her with sentimental solemnity.

“my dear lady, you will not put me off like that. i am much too sympathetic to be repulsed so easily. i don’t like to see you sad. adolf shall make coffee, and we will give up work this afternoon and chatter. you shall discover a friend——”

she said, very quietly:

“i would rather work, mr. massinger. work is very soothing.”