“You have seen him lately at Ashtead?” was his next remark.

“More than once.  And I can’t tell you how glad we were to see each other!  I knew in a moment that he had really forgiven me—­and I have always wanted to be assured of that.  How thoroughly good and straightforward he is!  I’m sure we shall be friends all our lives.”

“I agree with you,” he said, “that there’s no better fellow living.  Till now, I can’t see a sign of his being spoilt by success.  And spoilt in the worst sense, I don’t think he ever will be, happen what may, there’s a simplicity about him which makes his safeguard.  But, as for his painting—­well, I can’t be so sure, I know little or nothing about it, but it’s plain that he no longer takes his work very seriously.  It pleases people—­they pay large prices for it—­ where’s the harm?  Still, if he had some one to keep a higher ideal before him—­”

He broke off, with a vague gesture.  Rosamund looked up at him.

“We must try,” she said, with quiet earnestness.

“Oh, I don’t know that I’m any use,” replied Will, with a laugh.  “I speak with no authority.  But you—­yes. You might do much.  More than any one else possibly could.”

“That is exaggerating, Mr. Warburton,” said Rosamund.  “Even in the old days my influence didn’t go for much.  You speak of the ‘revolution’ caused by—­by what happened; but the truth is that the revolution had begun before that.  Remember I saw ‘Sanctuary’ while he was painting it, and, but we won’t talk of that”

“To tell you the truth,” returned Warburton, meeting her eyes steadily, with his pleasantest look, “I saw no harm in ‘Sanctuary.’  I think he was quite right to do what he could to earn money.  He wanted to be married; he had waited quite long enough; if he hadn’t done something of the kind, I should have doubted whether he was very much in earnest.  No, no; what I call the revolution began when he had lost all hope.  At the time he would have given up painting altogether, I believe; if it hadn’t been that he owed me money, and knew I wanted it.”

Rosamund made a quick movement of interest.

“I never heard about that.”

“Franks wouldn’t talk about it, be sure.  He saw me in a hobble—­I lost everything, all at once—­and he went to work like a brick to get money for me.  And that, when he felt more disposed to poison himself than to paint.  Do you think I should criticise the work he did under these circumstances?”

“No, indeed!  Thank you, Mr. Warburton, for telling me that story.”

“How exquisite London is at this time of the year!” Rosamund murmured, as having declared it was time to be walking homewards, they walked slowly towards the bridge.  “I’m glad not to be going away.  Look at that lovely sky!  Look at the tones of those houses.—­ Oh, I must make use of it all!  Real use, I mean, as splendid material for art, not only for money-making.  Do advise me, Mr. Warburton.  Where shall I go to look for bits?”