Before him rambled Ralph Pomfret and his wife; at his side was
Rosamund Elvan, who listened with a flattering air of interest to
all he said, but herself spoke seldom, and seemed, for the most
part, preoccupied with some anxiety. He spoke of Norbert Franks;
Miss Elvan replied mechanically, and at once made a remark about the
landscape. At the time, he had thought little of this; now it
revived in his memory, and disturbed him.

An hour passed. His patience was nearly at an end. He waited another
ten minutes, then left the room, called to the landlady that he was
going, and let himself out.

Scarcely had he walked half a dozen yards, when he stood face to
face with Franks.

"Ah! Here you are! I waited as long as I could--"

"I'll walk with you," said the artist, turning on his heels.

He had shaken hands but limply. His look avoided Warburton's. His
speech was flat, wearied.

"What's wrong, Franks?"

"As you've been in the studio, I daresay you know."

"I saw something that surprised me."

"_Did_ it surprise you?" asked Norbert, in a half-sullen undertone.