The little, grizzled artist looked rather sharply at her as, with a sense of dejection, she sat down on her own special chair in the studio (the same chair on which Phemie had perched on the afternoon of their first meeting). But for some minutes they only spoke of Phemie. On first reaching New Zealand things had gone hard with her. And she had been ill. But that she was happy, deeply fulfilled in her marriage, both her friends were assured by the tone of her letters.

And Urquhart? Had Joanna had word lately of Urquhart at all? asked Carl presently.

“He was passed over you know,” he told her, “for the Folklore Lectureship – about two months ago. Yes, an outsider got it. Had she not heard?”

But Joanna had heard nothing. It was three months or more, Carl must remember, since their last ride in his company. Didn’t Carl recall it? His horse had gone lame, and Lawrence and she had had to leave him behind at Milngavie? She had never ridden since that day. She had been saving all her money for London (“As if that were the reason!” said Carl’s eyes), and she had heard and seen nothing of Lawrence since that day. She was sorry about his disappointment.

“And well may you be sorry, Signora Madonna!” agreed Carl, looking as if he would gladly shake her. “I’m sorry too to have lost my pleasantest companion in Glasgow. Many a night has he sat where you sit now, talking with me till four in the morning. Many the good bottle we have emptied too, rearranging the world.”

“Where – what – has he gone to London then?” faltered Joanna with misgiving.

“No,” Carl returned shortly, rising from his place. “No. You needn’t be afraid. He’s in Oxford, not in London yet! He has gone to “scrub” as he calls it, for Manson, the anthropologist who soon brings out the last volume of Arcana Promethea – you have heard of the Arcana perhaps? – a truly encyclopedic work on the evolution of culture. For Urquhart I’m glad enough, though sorry for myself. It is work to suit him. He was in the marsh here – the sluff you call it? – stuck and stagnant. There, he may find his rockbottom. But Joanna – O! my poor, stupid Joanna! And all for a man that’s as dead as dead! Pfui!”