It was square and brown and leathery:
no "effects"; no bric-a-brac, none of the air of posing for
reproduction in a picture weekly--above all, no least sign of ever
having been used as a studio.
The fact brought home to me the absolute finality of Jack's break
with his old life.
"Don't you ever dabble with paint any more?" I asked, still looking
about for a trace of such activity.
"Never," he said briefly.
"Or water-colour--or etching?"
His confident eyes grew dim, and his cheeks paled a little under
their handsome sunburn.
"Never think of it, my dear fellow--any more than if I'd never
touched a brush."
And his tone told me in a flash that he never thought of anything
else.
I moved away, instinctively embarrassed by my unexpected discovery;
and as I turned, my eye fell on a small picture above the
mantel-piece--the only object breaking the plain oak panelling of
the room.
"Oh, by Jove!" I said.
It was a sketch of a donkey--an old tired donkey, standing in the
rain under a wall.
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