V
SILENCE came to be the atmosphere of the house—a silence with no peace in it. Basil was now working hard, at a picture for which he had made innumerable studies from models in town—a group of nude figures in a sylvan landscape, in astonishing tones of blue and yellow colour. He was absorbed, and he had no moments of relaxation. When he was not working he roamed moodily about by himself. When Teresa spoke of his picture he looked at her gloomily and answered shortly; and once when she pressed him with questions he said, "Don't talk about it. You're not interested in my work." She saw in him a desire to bury himself in that work, to shut her out. Yet he might have retreated to his studio in town, and he did not do so. He sought no other person. Apparently he wished to be near her and yet apart from her; and to make her feel daily, hourly, the cold pain of this separation of spirit.
After a week or more it grew intolerable to Teresa. She went into town, spent the day with Alice Blackley, looked up her Aunt Sophy, who had just come back from a lecture-tour in the West, and finally telegraphed to Basil that she would dine and stay the night with Alice. The
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