"And these things?" he asked, moving to something else.
They were a pair of boot-trees of which I had permitted myself the
economy. I remember they cost me four shillings in the old Brompton
Road.
"And that's your bath, I suppose.... Dumb-bells too.... And--_oh, good
Lord!_..."
He had picked up, and dropped again as if it had been hot, somebody or
other's card with the date of a "day" written across the corner of it....
As I helped him on with his overcoat he made no secret of the condition
of its armholes and lining. I don't for one moment suppose that the
garment was his. I took a candle to light him down as soon as it should
please him to depart.
"Well, so long, and joy to you on the high road to success," he said with
another grin for which I could have bundled him down the stairs....
In later days I never looked to Andriaovsky for tact; but I stared at him
for his lack of it that night. And as I stared I noticed for the first
time the broad and low pylon of his forehead, his handsome mouth and
chin, and the fire and wit and scorn that smouldered behind his cheap
spectacles. I looked again; and his smallness, his malice, his pathetic
little braggings about his poverty, seemed all to disappear. He had
strolled back to my hearthrug, wishing, I have no doubt now, to be able
to exclaim suddenly that it was too late for the pint of beer for which
he hadn't the money, and to curse his luck; and the pigmy quality of his
colossusship had somehow gone.
As I watched him, a neighbouring clock struck the half-hour, and he
did even as I had surmised--cursed the closing time of the English
public-houses....
I lighted him down. For one moment, under the hall gas, he almost dropped
his jesting manner.
"You _do_ know better, Harrison, you know," he said. "But, of course,
you're going to be a famous author in almost no time. Oh, _ca se
voit_! No garrets for _you_! It was a treat,' the way you handled those
fellows--really ... Well don't forget us others when you're up there--I
may want you to write my 'Life' some day...."
I heard the slapping of the loose sole as he shuffled down the path. At
the gate he turned for a moment.
"Good night, Brutus," he called.
When I had mounted to my garret again my eyes fell once more on that
ridiculous assemblage of empty chairs, all solemnly talking to one
another. I burst out into a laugh. Then I undressed, put my jacket on the
hanger, took the morrow's boots from the trees and treed those I had
removed, changed the pair of trousers under my mattress, and went, still
laughing at the chairs, to bed.
This was Michael Andriaovsky, the Polish painter, who died four weeks
ago.
I
I knew the reason of Maschka's visit the moment she was announced. Even
in the stressful moments of the funeral she had found time to whisper to
me that she hoped to call upon me at an early date. I dismissed the
amanuensis to whom I was dictating the last story of the fourth series of
_Martin Renard_, gave a few hasty instructions to my secretary, and told
the servant to show Miss Andriaovsky into the drawing-room, to ask her
to be so good as to excuse me for five minutes, to order tea at once, and
then to bring my visitor up to the library.
A few minutes later she was shown into the room.
She was dressed in the same plainly cut costume of dead black she
had worn at the funeral, and had pushed up her heavy veil over the
close-fitting cap of black fur that accentuated her Sclavonic appearance.
I noticed again with distress the pallor of her face and the bistred
rings that weeks of nursing had put under her dark eyes. I noticed also
her resemblance, in feature and stature, to her brother. I placed a chair
for her; the tea-tray followed her in; and without more than a murmured
greeting she peeled off her gloves and prepared to preside at the tray.
She had filled the cups, and I had handed her toast, before she spoke.
Then:
"I suppose you know what I've come about," she said.