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Updated: May 16, 2025
Then he continued in a lighter key: "However, I don't refuse; you take me too literally. It was the last bitter cry of my spleen. I have put myself in Mosenthal's hands; I've sold him two pictures." "In that case, then, why am I not to be glad?" "Oh, it's success!" said Oswyn. He glanced contemptuously at his frayed shirt-cuff, with the broad stains of paint upon it.
Of course, Sylvester by rights ought to be the man, only I can't ask him to come to me there are reasons; and, besides, he is an ass." "Yes, he is an ass," admitted Oswyn simply; "that is reason enough."
If Oswyn would have accompanied him to the Riviera he would have gone; but Oswyn was not to be induced to forsake his beloved city, and so he stayed, telling himself that each week was to be the last.
He took him into his sanctuary and found him whisky and a pipe; then he set himself to make the painter talk, a task which he found by no means arduous. Oswyn was sober, and Rainham was surprised after a while at his sanity. He decided that, though one might differ from him, dissent from his premises or his conclusions, he was still a man to be taken seriously.
"It's an accident that he happens to be connected with shipping a fortunate one, though, for he owns a most picturesque old shanty in the far East. But actually he does not know a rudder post from a jib-boom." "I suppose you have been painting it?" said Oswyn shortly. Lightmark nodded. "I have been painting the river from his wharf.
Now Lightmark seemed to assume a more confident attitude, to become more like himself; and he was about to break the chain of silence, which had held him almost voiceless throughout Oswyn's attack, when Rainham again interrupted him. "I am sure you needn't say anything, Dick. We all know Oswyn; he he wasn't serious. Go and catch your train, and forget all about it."
Furnival dropped the little packets quickly into the hottest part of the fire. "Now, here is a letter with a very recent postmark," he continued. "A man's writing, too, I should say. Will you read this, while I go through the others? It looks like rather a long epistle." The handwriting seemed familiar to Oswyn, and his hand trembled slightly as he turned to the signature for corroboration.
Rainham, and I must decline to read your letter." He glanced significantly at the door, not suppressing a slight yawn; it was incredible how this repulsive little artist, with his indelicate propositions, bored him. But Oswyn ignored his gesture; simply laid the missive in question on the table; then he glanced casually at his watch.
"I don't know anyone of that name. Some mistake, I suppose, or Well, sailors will be sailors! Thank you, Andrewes, that will do. Good-night or, rather, we shall be back in half an hour or so." He turned to Oswyn, who had been hanging back to avoid any appearance of interest in the conversation, for corroboration. "You will come back, of course?" "Rather late, isn't it?
When he had removed the tape, Oswyn noticed that a great many of the letters had the appearance of being in the same handwriting; these were tied up separately with a piece of narrow faded silk riband, and it was evident that they were arranged more or less in order of date; the writing in the case of the earliest letter being that of a child, while the most recent, dated less than a year ago, was a short note, an invitation, with the signature "Eve Lightmark."
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