Lithe and active too was his figure, his movements
were quick and precise, and even Merwick, with his doctor’s eye, trained
to detect any symptom, however slight, in which the drinker must betray
himself, was bound to confess that no such was here present. His
appearance contradicted it authoritatively, so also did his manner; he
met the eye of the man he was talking to without sideway glances; he
showed no signs however small, of any disorder of the nerves. Yet Dick
was altogether an abnormal fellow; the history he had just been
recounting was abnormal, those weeks of depression, followed by the
sudden snap in his brain which had apparently removed, as a wet cloth
removes a stain, all the memory of his love, and of the cruel bitterness
that resulted from it. Abnormal too was his sudden leap into high
artistic achievement from a past of very mediocre performance. Why
should there then not be a similar abnormality here? “Yes, I confess you show no sign of taking excessive stimulant,” said
Merwick, “but if I attended you professionally--ah, I’m not touting--I
should make you give up all stimulant, and go to bed for a month.”

“Why in the name of goodness?” asked Dick. “Because, theoretically, it must be the best thing you could do. You had
a shock, how severe, the misery of those weeks of depression tells you. Well, common-sense says, ‘Go slow after a shock; recoup.’ Instead of
which you go very fast indeed and produce. I grant it seems to suit you;
you also became suddenly capable of feats which--oh, it’s sheer
nonsense, man.”

“What’s sheer nonsense?”

“You are. Professionally, I detest you, because you appear to be an
exception to a theory that I am sure must be right. Therefore I have got
to explain you away, and at present I can’t.”

“What’s the theory?” asked Dick. “Well, the treatment of shock first of all. And secondly, that in order
to do good work, one ought to eat and drink very little and sleep a lot. How long do you sleep by the way?”

Dick considered. “Oh, I go to bed about three usually,” he said; “I suppose I sleep for
about four hours.”

“And live on whisky, and eat like a Strasburg goose, and are prepared to
run a race to-morrow. Go away, or at least I will. Perhaps you’ll break
down, though. That would satisfy me. But even if you don’t, it still
remains quite interesting.”

Merwick found it more than quite interesting in fact, and when he got
home that night he searched in his shelves for a certain dusky volume in
which he turned up a chapter called “Shock.” The book was a treatise on
obscure diseases and abnormal conditions of the nervous system. He had
often read it before, for in his profession he was a special student of
the rare and curious. And the following paragraph which had interested
him much before, interested him more than ever this evening. “The nervous system also can act in a way that must always even to the
most advanced student be totally unexpected. Cases are known, and
well-authenticated ones, when a paralytic person has jumped out of bed
on the cry of ‘Fire.’ Cases too are known when a great shock, which
produces depression so profound as to amount to lethargy, is followed by
abnormal activity, and the calling into use of powers which were
previously unknown to exist, or at any rate existed in a quite ordinary
degree. Such a hyper-sensitised state, especially since the desire for
sleep or rest is very often much diminished, demands much stimulant in
the way of food and alcohol. It would appear also that the patient
suffering from this rare form of the after-consequences of shock has
sooner or later some sudden and complete break-down. It is impossible,
however, to conjecture what form this will take. The digestion, however,
may become suddenly atrophied, delirium tremens may, without warning,
supervene, or he may go completely off his head....”

       *       *       *       *       *

But the weeks passed on, the July suns made London reel in a haze of
heat, and yet Alingham remained busy, brilliant and altogether
exceptional. Merwick, unknown to him, was watching him closely, and at
present was completely puzzled. He held Dick to his word that if he
could detect the slightest sign of over-indulgence in stimulant, he
would cut it off altogether, but he could see absolutely none. Lady
Madingley meantime had given him several sittings, and in this
connection again Merwick was utterly mistaken in the view he had
expressed to Dick as to the risks he ran. For, strangely enough, the two
had become great friends. Yet Dick was quite right, all emotion with
regard to her on his part was dead, it might have been a piece of
still-life that he was painting, instead of a woman he had wildly
worshipped. One morning in mid-July she had been sitting to him in his studio, and
contrary to custom he had been rather silent, biting the ends of his
brushes, frowning at his canvas, frowning too at her. Suddenly he gave a
little impatient exclamation. “It’s so like you,” he said, “but it just isn’t you. There’s a lot of
difference! I can’t help making you look as if you were listening to a
hymn, one of those in four sharps, don’t you know, written by an
organist, probably after eating muffins. And that’s not characteristic
of you!”

She laughed. “You must be rather ingenious to put all that in,” she said. “I am.”

“Where do I show it all?”

Dick sighed. “Oh, in your eyes of course,” he said. “You show everything by your
eyes, you know. It is entirely characteristic of you. You are a
throw-back; don’t you remember we settled that ever so long ago, to the
brute creation, who likewise show everything by their eyes.”

“Oh-h. I should have thought that dogs growled at you, and cats
scratched.”

“Those are practical measures, but short of that you and animals use
their eyes only, whereas people use their mouths and foreheads and other
things. A pleased dog, an expectant dog, a hungry dog, a jealous dog, a
disappointed dog--one gathers all that from a dog’s eyes. Their mouths
are comparatively immobile, and a cat’s is even more so.”

“You have often told me that I belong to the genus cat,” said Lady
Madingley, with complete composure. “By Jove, yes,” said he. “Perhaps looking at the eyes of a cat would
help me to see what I miss. Many thanks for the hint.”

He put down his palette and went to a side table on which stood bottles
and ice and syphons. “No drink of any kind on this Sahara of a morning?” he asked. “No, thanks. Now when will you give me the final sitting? You said you
only wanted one more.”

Dick helped himself. “Well, I go down to the country with this,” he said, “to put in the
background I told you of. With luck it will take me three days hard
painting, without luck a week or more. Oh, my mouth waters at the
thought of the background. So shall we say to-morrow week?”

Lady Madingley made a note of this in a minute gold and jewelled
memorandum book.