“I didn’t—till after.... She sent for me to paint him when hewas dead.”
“When he was dead？ You？”
I must have let a little too much amazement escape throughmy surprise， for he answered with a deprecating laugh：
“Yes—she’s an awful simpleton， you know， Mrs. Stroud. Heronly idea was to have him done by a fashionable painter—ah，poor Stroud！ She thought it the surest way of proclaiminghis greatness—of forcing it on a purblind public. And at themoment I was THE fashionable painter.”
“Ah， poor Stroud—as you say. Was THAT his history？”
“That was his history. She believed in him， gloried inhim—or thought she did. But she couldn’t bear not to have allthe drawing-rooms with her. She couldn’t bear the fact that， onvarnishing days， one could always get near enough to see hispictures. Poor woman！ She’s just a fragment groping for otherfragments. Stroud is the only whole I ever knew.”
“You ever knew？ But you just said—”
Gisburn had a curious smile in his eyes.
“Oh， I knew him， and he knew me—only it happened afterhe was dead.”
I dropped my voice instinctively. “When she sent for you？”
“Yes—quite insensible to the irony. She wanted himvindicated—and by me！”
He laughed again， and threw back his head to look up at thesketch of the donkey. “There were days when I couldn’t lookat that thing—couldn’t face it. But I forced myself to put ithere； and now it’s cured me—cured me. That’s the reason whyI don’t dabble any more， my dear Rickham； or rather Stroudhimself is the reason.”
For the first time my idle curiosity about my companionturned into a serious desire to understand him better.
“I wish you’d tell me how it happened，” I said.
He stood looking up at the sketch， and twirling between hisfingers a cigarette he had forgotten to light. Suddenly he turnedtoward me.
“I’d rather like to tell you—because I’ve always suspectedyou of loathing my work.”
I made a deprecating gesture， which he negatived with agood-humoured shrug.
“Oh， I didn’t care a straw when I believed in myself—andnow it’s an added tie between us！”
He laughed slightly， without bitterness， and pushed oneof the deep arm-chairs forward. “There： make yourselfcomfortable—and here are the cigars you like.”
He placed them at my elbow and continued to wander up anddown the room， stopping now and then beneath the picture.
“How it happened？ I can tell you in five minutes—and itdidn’t take much longer to happen.... I can remember now howsurprised and pleased I was when I got Mrs. Stroud’s note.
Of course， deep down， I had always FELT there was no onelike him—only I had gone with the stream， echoed the usualplatitudes about him， till I half got to think he was a failure，one of the kind that are left behind. By Jove， and he WAS leftbehind—because he had come to stay！ The rest of us had to letourselves be swept along or go under， but he was high abovethe current—on everlasting foundations， as you say.
“Well， I went off to the house in my most egregious mood—rather moved， Lord forgive me， at the pathos of poor Stroud’scareer of failure being crowned by the glory of my paintinghim！ Of course I meant to do the picture for nothing—I toldMrs. Stroud so when she began to stammer something abouther poverty. I remember getting off a prodigious phraseabout the honour being MINE—oh， I was princely， my dearRickham！ I was posing to myself like one of my own sitters.
“Then I was taken up and left alone with him. I had sentall my traps in advance， and I had only to set up the easeland get to work. He had been dead only twenty-four hours，and he died suddenly， of heart disease， so that there had beenno preliminary work of destruction—his face was clear anduntouched. I had met him once or twice， years before， andthought him insignificant and dingy. Now I saw that he wassuperb.
“I was glad at first， with a merely aesthetic satisfaction：