"
Kirk said nothing. But it was not as a hobby that he was regarding his
painting. He had come to a knowledge of realities in the wilderness and
to an appreciation of the fact that he had a soul which could not be
kept alive except by honest work.
He had the decent man's distaste for living on his wife's money. He
supposed it was inevitable that a certain portion of it must go to his
support, but he was resolved that there should be in the sight of the
gods who look down on human affairs at least a reasonable excuse for
his existence. If work could make him anything approaching a real
artist, he would become one.
Meanwhile he was quite willing that Ruth should look upon his life-work
as a pleasant pastime to save him from ennui. Even to his wife a man is
not always eager to exhibit his soul in its nakedness.
"By the way," said Ruth, "you won't find George Pennicut at the studio.
He has gone back to England."
"I'm sorry. I liked George."
"He liked you. He left all sorts of messages. He nearly wept when he
said good-bye. But he wouldn't stop. In a burst of confidence he told
me what the trouble was. Our blue sky had got on his nerves. He wanted
a London drizzle again. He said the thought of it made him homesick."
Kirk entered the house thoughtfully. Somehow this last piece of news
had put the coping-stone on the edifice of his--his what? Depression? It
was hardly that.
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