CHAPTER 27

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Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a
pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday,
and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about looking at the
pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the
emotions they suggested. I sauntered into the long gallery,
and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, for his appearance,
so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a
smile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed
singularly disconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet
ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all
his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still,
feels that he only looks a fool. Turning round, he
stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me. His
round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.

"Stroeve," I said.

He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.

"Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?" I asked gaily.

"It's a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I'd
come and see if they had anything new."

"But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week."

"Strickland's painting in my studio."

"Well?"

"I suggested it myself. He's not strong enough to go back to
his own place yet. I thought we could both paint there.
Lots of fellows in the Quarter share a studio. I thought it
would be fun. I've always thought it would be jolly to have
someone to talk to when one was tired of work."

He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement
with a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish
eyes fixed on mine. They were full of tears.

"I don't think I understand," I said.

"Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio."

"Damn it all, it's your studio. That's his lookout."

He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.

"What happened?" I asked, rather sharply.

He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the
pictures on the wall.

"He wouldn't let me go on painting. He told me to get out."

"But why didn't you tell him to go to hell?"

"He turned me out. I couldn't very well struggle with him.
He threw my hat after me, and locked the door."

I was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself,
because Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt
inclined to laugh.

"But what did your wife say?"

"She'd gone out to do the marketing."

"Is he going to let her in?"

"I don't know."

I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy
with whom a master is finding fault.

"Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?" I asked.

He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.

"No. You'd better not do anything."

He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some
reason he did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand.

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