room.
For several minutes Glazzard kept the same attitude, his eyes fixed on
the floor, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into his waistcoat.
Then he uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and walked with hurried,
jerky step across the room; his facial muscles quivered ceaselessly,
distorting the features into all manner of grotesque and ugly
expressions. Again the harsh sound escaped him, and again he changed
his place as though impelled by a sudden pain. It was a long time
before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and rested them
against the side of the fireplace. His hands were thrust into his
trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at the ceiling.
At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no look of
mirth followed the explosion. Little by little he grew motionless, and
sat with closed eyes.
From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble
countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity.
Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the
ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art. On the
dwarf book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of
old and new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers. Fifteen
years had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great
sum, for Glazzard had never commanded more than his
younger-brother's portion of a yearly five hundred pounds, and all his
tastes were far from being represented in the retreat where he spent his
hours of highest enjoyment and endeavour. Of late he had been beset
by embarrassments which a man of his stamp could ill endure:
depreciation of investments, need of sordid calculation, humiliating
encounters. To-day he tasted the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it
seemed to him that he should never again look with delight upon a
picture, or feast his soul with music, or care to open a book.
A knock at the door aroused him. It was a civil-tongued serving-woman
who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day. No;
he was on the point of going forth.
Big Ben was striking twelve. At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab
which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court. He ascended stairs,
and reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark,
Solicitor. An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room,
where he was greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man,
with gleaming visage, full lips, chubby hands.
"Well, what is it now?" inquired the visitor, who had been summoned
hither by a note that morning.
Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his friend's
arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting against a
chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.
"What have you to say to that?"
"The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time."
"But--but--" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness-- "but
do know whose it is?"
The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a
duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.
"I know whose you think it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face still
had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but just
opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't."
"Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy."
Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face
and tone that the connoisseur s dogmatism troubled him more than he
wished to have it thought.
"Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his
plump body.
"Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no Morland;
take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?"
Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had made
Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on
questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.
"You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend. "Let
Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you to call,
but don't stay unless you like."
Glazzard looked round the office.
"Well?" he asked, more gently.
"Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special
reason?"
"Yes. But I can't talk about it."
"I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the local
wiseacres, and--do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?"
"How so?"
Mr. Stark consulted his watch.
"I'm at leisure for just nineteen minutes. If you care to sit down, I have
an idea I should like to put before you."
The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs.

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