His old bowler hat--he had not thought it
necessary to wait until he got outside before thrusting it on the back of
his head--was so limp in substance that I verily believed that had he run
incautiously downstairs he would have found when he got to the bottom
that its crown had sunk in of its own weight. In spite of his remark
about the pint of beer, I doubt if he had the price of one in his pocket. "What's this, Brutus--a concertina?" he suddenly asked, stopping before
the collapsible case in which I kept my rather old dress suit. I told him what it was, and he hoisted up his shoulders. "And these things?" he asked, moving to something else. They were a pair of boot-trees of which I had permitted myself the
economy. I remember they cost me four shillings in the old Brompton
Road. "And that's your bath, I suppose.... Dumb-bells too.... And--_oh, good
Lord!_..."

He had picked up, and dropped again as if it had been hot, somebody or
other's card with the date of a "day" written across the corner of it....

As I helped him on with his overcoat he made no secret of the condition
of its armholes and lining. I don't for one moment suppose that the
garment was his. I took a candle to light him down as soon as it should
please him to depart. "Well, so long, and joy to you on the high road to success," he said with
another grin for which I could have bundled him down the stairs.... In later days I never looked to Andriaovsky for tact; but I stared at him
for his lack of it that night. And as I stared I noticed for the first
time the broad and low pylon of his forehead, his handsome mouth and
chin, and the fire and wit and scorn that smouldered behind his cheap
spectacles. I looked again; and his smallness, his malice, his pathetic
little braggings about his poverty, seemed all to disappear. He had
strolled back to my hearthrug, wishing, I have no doubt now, to be able
to exclaim suddenly that it was too late for the pint of beer for which
he hadn't the money, and to curse his luck; and the pigmy quality of his
colossusship had somehow gone. As I watched him, a neighbouring clock struck the half-hour, and he
did even as I had surmised--cursed the closing time of the English
public-houses.... I lighted him down. For one moment, under the hall gas, he almost dropped
his jesting manner. "You _do_ know better, Harrison, you know," he said. "But, of course,
you're going to be a famous author in almost no time. Oh, _ca se
voit_! No garrets for _you_! It was a treat,' the way you handled those
fellows--really ... Well don't forget us others when you're up there--I
may want you to write my 'Life' some day...."

I heard the slapping of the loose sole as he shuffled down the path. At
the gate he turned for a moment. "Good night, Brutus," he called. When I had mounted to my garret again my eyes fell once more on that
ridiculous assemblage of empty chairs, all solemnly talking to one
another. I burst out into a laugh. Then I undressed, put my jacket on the
hanger, took the morrow's boots from the trees and treed those I had
removed, changed the pair of trousers under my mattress, and went, still
laughing at the chairs, to bed. This was Michael Andriaovsky, the Polish painter, who died four weeks
ago. I

I knew the reason of Maschka's visit the moment she was announced. Even
in the stressful moments of the funeral she had found time to whisper to
me that she hoped to call upon me at an early date. I dismissed the
amanuensis to whom I was dictating the last story of the fourth series of
_Martin Renard_, gave a few hasty instructions to my secretary, and told
the servant to show Miss Andriaovsky into the drawing-room, to ask her
to be so good as to excuse me for five minutes, to order tea at once, and
then to bring my visitor up to the library. A few minutes later she was shown into the room. She was dressed in the same plainly cut costume of dead black she
had worn at the funeral, and had pushed up her heavy veil over the
close-fitting cap of black fur that accentuated her Sclavonic appearance. I noticed again with distress the pallor of her face and the bistred
rings that weeks of nursing had put under her dark eyes. I noticed also
her resemblance, in feature and stature, to her brother. I placed a chair
for her; the tea-tray followed her in; and without more than a murmured
greeting she peeled off her gloves and prepared to preside at the tray. She had filled the cups, and I had handed her toast, before she spoke. Then:

"I suppose you know what I've come about," she said. I nodded. "Long, long ago you promised it. Nobody else can do it. The only question
is 'when.'" "That's the only question," I agreed. "We, naturally," she continued, after a glance in which her eyes mutely
thanked me for my implied promise, "are anxious that it should be as soon
as possible; but, of course--I shall quite understand--"

She gave a momentary glance round my library. I helped her out. "You mean that I'm a very important person nowadays, and that you're
afraid to trespass on my time. Never mind that. I shall find time
for this. But tell me before we go any further exactly how you stand and
precisely what it is you expect." Briefly she did so. It did not in the least surprise me to learn that her
brother had died penniless. "And if you hadn't undertaken the 'Life,'" she said, "he might just as
well not have worked in poverty all these years. You can, at least, see
to his fame." I nodded again gravely, and ruminated for a moment. Then I spoke. "I can write it, fully and in detail, up to five years ago," I said. "You
know what happened then. I tried my best to help him, but he never would
let me. Tell me, Maschka, why he wouldn't sell me that portrait." I knew instantly, from her quick confusion, that her brother had spoken
to her about the portrait he had refused to sell me, and had probably
told her the reason for his refusal. I watched her as she evaded the
question as well as she could. "You know how--queer--he was about who he sold his things to. And as for
those five years in which you saw less of him, Schofield will tell you
all you want to know." I relinquished the point. "Who's Schofield?" I asked instead. "He was a very good friend of Michael's--of both of us. You can talk
quite freely to him. I want to say at the beginning that I should like
him to be associated with you in this." I don't know how I divined on the spot her relation to Schofield, whoever
he was. She told me that he too was a painter. "Michael thought very highly of his things," she said. "I don't know them," I replied. "You probably wouldn't," she returned.... But I caught the quick drop of her eyes from their brief excursion round
my library, and I felt something within me stiffen a little. It did not
need Maschka Andriaovsky to remind me that I had not attained my position
without--let us say--splitting certain differences; the looseness of
the expression can be corrected hereafter. Life consists very largely of
compromises.