"Is HE your idea of an English gentleman ?" he asked.
I was disappointed, I was nervous, I wanted to get on with my work; so.
I replied with irritation: "Oh my dear Major--I can't be ruined for YOU!" It was a horrid speech, but he stood another moment--after which, without a word, he quitted the studio.

I drew a long breath, for I said to myself that I shouldn't see him again.

I hadn't told him definitely that I was in danger of having my work rejected, but I was vexed at his not having felt the catastrophe in the air, read with me the moral of our fruitless collaboration, the lesson that in the deceptive atmosphere of art even the highest respectability may fail of being plastic.
I didn't owe my friends money, but I did see them again.

They reappeared together three days later, and, given all the other facts, there was something tragic in that one.

It was a clear proof they could find nothing else in life to do.