"Not so well. I'm still trying to pull those two figures together. It'll come, I think. But I couldn't work to-day. Everything seems so grey—all the colour gone out of the world. I feel terribly old."
"You've been working hard this month."
"It isn't that. But I'm sad. I've been sadder to-day than ever before in my life. I've been taking account of stock."
They had dined at a small table before the great log-fire in the studio. Now the table had been pushed away. Teresa was leaning back in a low chair, very tired and drowsy from the heat after her long drive. Basil got up and walked about the room, stopping before his picture, of which the glowing blue and yellow colour and the sharp lines made an almost violent effect, even in the subdued light.
"Yes, Basil?"
"An account of stock," he repeated. "I've done a lot of thinking to-day, because I couldn't work. And I couldn't work because you weren't in the house. I thought about you. And I was sad because I know now that I can never get away from you. For a while I thought I might—I wanted to. I wanted to have some new experience, new life, apart from you—something that wouldn't cost me so dear. I want it still—but I know I can't get it. I can't get away from you. You're in my blood …"
