made confidantes of Mrs. Cross and her daughter, and spent many an
evening with them talking, talking, talking about Rosamund; but this
intimacy did not endure very long, Mrs. Cross being a person of
marked peculiarities, which in the end overtried Norbert's temper.
Only on the fourth story flat by Chelsea Bridge could the lover find
that sort of sympathy which he really needed, solacing yet tonic.
But for Warburton he would have worked even less. To Will it seemed
an odd result of fortunate love that the artist, though in every
other respect a better man than before, should have become, to all
appearances, less zealous, less efficient, in his art. Had Rosamund
Elvan the right influence on her lover; in spite of Norbert's lyric
eulogy, had she served merely to confuse his aims, perhaps to bring
him down to a lower level of thought?

There was his picture, "Sanctuary." Before he knew Rosamund, Franks
would have scoffed at such a subject, would have howled at such
treatment of it. There was notable distance between this and what
Norbert was painting in that summer sunrise four years ago, with his
portable easel in the gutter. And Miss Elvan admired "Sanctuary"--
at least, Franks said she did. True, she also admired the picture of
the pawnshop and the public-house; Will had himself heard her speak
of it with high praise, and with impatient wonder that no purchaser
could be found for it. Most likely she approved of everything
Norbert did, and had no more serious criterion. Unless, indeed, her
private test of artistic value were the financial result.

Warburton could not altogether believe that. Annoyance with the
artist now and then inclined him to slighting thought of Rosamund;
yet, on the whole, his view of her was not depreciatory. The
disadvantage to his mind was her remarkable comeliness. He could not