Free Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) by Rudyard Kipling

you wouldn’t understand, and it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, and tell me what you see.’
    They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was gathering, and it stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings. Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge of faces to bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet toque.
    ‘It’s the same Maisie, and it’s the same me,’ he said. ‘We’ve both nice little wills of our own, and one or other of us has to be broken. Now about the future. I must come and see your pictures some day, — I suppose when the red-haired girl is on the premises.’
    ‘Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are such heaps of things I want to talk about and ask your advice about. Now I must get back to work.’
    ‘Try to find out before next Sunday what I am,’ said Dick. ‘Don’t take my word for anything I’ve told you. Good-bye, darling, and bless you.’
    Maisie stole away like a little gray mouse. Dick watched her till she was out of sight, but he did not hear her say to herself, very soberly, ‘I’m a wretch, — a horrid, selfish wretch. But it’s Dick, and Dick will understand.’
    No one has yet explained what actually happens when an irresistible force meets the immovable post, though many have thought deeply, even as Dick thought. He tried to assure himself that Maisie would be led in a few weeks by his mere presence and discourse to a better way of thinking. Then he remembered much too distinctly her face and all that was written on it.
    ‘If I know anything of heads,’ he said, ‘there’s everything in that face but love. I shall have to put that in myself; and that chin and mouth won’t be won for nothing. But she’s right. She knows what she wants, and she’s going to get it. What insolence! Me! Of all the people in the wide world, to use me! But then she’s Maisie. There’s no getting over that fact; and it’s good to see her again. This business must have been simmering at the back of my head for years.... She’ll use me as I used Binat at Port Said.
    She’s quite right. It will hurt a little. I shall have to see her every Sunday, — like a young man courting a housemaid. She’s sure to come around; and yet — that mouth isn’t a yielding mouth. I shall be wanting to kiss her all the time, and I shall have to look at her pictures, — I don’t even know what sort of work she does yet, — and I shall have to talk about Art, — Woman’s Art! Therefore, particularly and perpetually, damn all varieties of Art. It did me a good turn once, and now it’s in my way. I’ll go home and do some Art.’
    Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten with a terrible thought. The figure of a solitary woman in the fog suggested it.
    ‘She’s all alone in London, with a red-haired impressionist girl, who probably has the digestion of an ostrich. Most red-haired people have.
    Maisie’s a bilious little body. They’ll eat like lone women, — meals at all hours, and tea with all meals. I remember how the students in Paris used to pig along. She may fall ill at any minute, and I shan’t be able to help.
    Whew! this is ten times worse than owning a wife.’
    Torpenhow entered the studio at dusk, and looked at Dick with eyes full of the austere love that springs up between men who have tugged at the same oar together and are yoked by custom and use and the intimacies of toil. This is a good love, and, since it allows, and even encourages, strife, recrimination, and brutal sincerity, does not die, but grows, and is proof against any absence and evil conduct.
    Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the filled pipe of council. He thought of Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new thing to think of anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for himself. Here at last was an outlet for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with jewelry, — a thick gold necklace