The last glow of the sun fell on the gray roofs opposite; dying hard
it seemed over the street in which the Mitouards lived; and they heard
suddenly the tinkle of an _Angelus_ bell. Very placid! the place and the
few peasants in their pictorial hats and caps who lingered. Only the two
Englishmen sitting, their glasses empty, and their smoking over, looking
out on it all with their anxious faces, brought in a contrasting note of
modern life; of the complex aching life of cities, with its troubles and
its difficulties.
'Is that your final word, Tregellan?' asked the artist at last, a little
wearily.
'It must be, Sebastian! Believe me, I am infinitely sorry.'
'Yes, of course,' he answered quickly, acidly; 'well, I will sleep on it.'
III
They made their first breakfast in an almost total silence; both wore the
bruised harassed air which tells of a night passed without benefit of
sleep. Immediately afterwards Murch went out alone: Tregellan could guess
the direction of his visit, but not its object; he wondered if the artist
was making his difficult confession. Presently they brought him in a
pencilled note; he recognised, with some surprise, his friend's tortuous
hand.
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