'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory words had been
spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said
he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty. We've been
doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on
home.'

'He--he's not coming?'

'He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies.'

'When did you p-p-part from him?' she asked, her nether lip starting off
quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech.
She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out.

'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.'

'What! he has actually gone past my gates?'

'Yes. When we got to them--handsome gates they are, too, the finest bit
of modern wrought-iron work I have seen--when we came to them we stopped,
talking there a little while, and then he wished me good-bye and went on.
The truth is, he's a little bit depressed just now, and doesn't want to
see anybody. He's a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a little
uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetry
is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he
has just come in for a terrible slating from the --- Review that was
published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident.
Perhaps you've read it?'