with regard to women. I'm rather afraid Franks might think it a fine
thing to go to the devil because he's been jilted. It isn't
fashionable nowadays; there might seem to be a sort of originality
about it."

They talked for a few minutes of business matters, and Sherwood
briskly went his way.

Four days passed. Warburton paid a visit to the Pomfrets, and had
from them a confirmation of all he suspected regarding Norbert
Franks. The artist's behaviour at Ashstead had been very theatrical
indeed; he talked much of suicide, preferably by the way of drink,
and, when dissuaded from this, with a burst of tears--veritable
tears--begged Ralph Pomfret to lend him money enough to go to
Cairo; on which point, also, he met with kindliest opposition.
Thereupon, he had raged for half an hour against some treacherous
friend, unnamed. Who this could be, the Pomfrets had no idea.
Warburton, though he affected equal ignorance, could not doubt but
that it was himself, and he grew inwardly angry. Franks had been to
Bath, and had obtained a private interview with Winifred Elvan, in
which (Winifred wrote to her aunt) he had demeaned himself very
humbly and pathetically, first of all imploring the sister's help
with Rosamund, and, when she declared she could do nothing,
entreating to be told whether or not he was ousted by a rival.
Rather impatient with the artist's follies than troubled about his
sufferings, Will came home again. He wrote a brief, not unfriendly
letter to Franks, urging him to return to his better mind--the
half-disdainful, half-philosophical resignation which he seemed to
have attained a month ago. The answer to this was a couple of lines;
"Thanks. Your advice, no doubt, is well meant, but I had rather not