76 The Light That Failed and, above all, the hopeless enslavement of the man, in a spirit of bitter mockery. “Pll buy it,” said Dick, promptly, “at your own price.” “My price is too high, but I dare say you'll be as grateful if —” The wet sketch, fluttered from the girl’s hand and fell into the ashes of the studio stove. When she picked it up it was hopelessly smudged. “Oh, it’s all spoiled!” said Maisie. “And I never saw it. Was it like?” “Thank you,” said Dick under his breath to the red-haired girl, and he removed himself swiftly. “How that man hates me!” said the girl. “And how he loves you, Maisie!” “What nonsense? I knew Dick’s very fond of me, but he had his work to do, and I have mine.” “Yes, he is fond of you, and I think he knows there is something in impressionism, after all. Maisie, can’t you see?” “See? See what?” “Nothing; only, I know that if I could get any man to look at me as that man looks at you, I’d — I don’t know what I’d do. But he hates me. Oh, how he hates me!” She was not altogether correct. Dick’s hatred was tempered with gratitude for a few moments, and then he forgot the girl entirely. Only the sense of shame remained, and he was nursing it across the Park in the fog. “There'll be an explosion one of these days,” he said wrathfully. “But it isn’t Maisie’s fault; she’s right, quite right, as far as she knows, and I can’t blame her. This business has been going on for three months nearly. Three months! — and it cost me ten years’ knocking about to get at the notion, the merest raw notion, of my work. That’s true; but then I didn’t have pins, drawing-pins, and palette-knives, stuck into me