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"
No
,
"
she
smiled
.
"
He
’
s
inhuman
.
"
"
He
’
s
abominable
.
"
Stroeve
was
,
of
course
,
delighted
with
her
.
He
could
not
do
enough
to
show
his
gratitude
for
the
whole
-
hearted
devotion
with
which
she
had
accepted
the
burden
he
laid
on
her
.
But
he
was
a
little
puzzled
by
the
behaviour
of
Blanche
and
Strickland
towards
one
another
.
"
Do
you
know
,
I
’
ve
seen
them
sit
there
for
hours
together
without
saying
a
word
?
"
On
one
occasion
,
when
Strickland
was
so
much
better
that
in
a
day
or
two
he
was
to
get
up
,
I
sat
with
them
in
the
studio
.
Dirk
and
I
were
talking
.
Mrs
.
Stroeve
sewed
,
and
I
thought
I
recognised
the
shirt
she
was
mending
as
Strickland
’
s
.
He
lay
on
his
back
;
he
did
not
speak
.
Once
I
saw
that
his
eyes
were
fixed
on
Blanche
Stroeve
,
and
there
was
in
them
a
curious
irony
.
Feeling
their
gaze
,
she
raised
her
own
,
and
for
a
moment
they
stared
at
one
another
.
I
could
not
quite
understand
her
expression
.
Her
eyes
had
in
them
a
strange
perplexity
,
and
perhaps
—
but
why
?
—
alarm
.
In
a
moment
Strickland
looked
away
and
idly
surveyed
the
ceiling
,
but
she
continued
to
stare
at
him
,
and
now
her
look
was
quite
inexplicable
.
In
a
few
days
Strickland
began
to
get
up
.
He
was
nothing
but
skin
and
bone
.
His
clothes
hung
upon
him
like
rags
on
a
scarecrow
.
With
his
untidy
beard
and
long
hair
,
his
features
,
always
a
little
larger
than
life
,
now
emphasised
by
illness
,
he
had
an
extraordinary
aspect
;
but
it
was
so
odd
that
it
was
not
quite
ugly
.
There
was
something
monumental
in
his
ungainliness
.
I
do
not
know
how
to
express
precisely
the
impression
he
made
upon
me
.
It
was
not
exactly
spirituality
that
was
obvious
,
though
the
screen
of
the
flesh
seemed
almost
transparent
,
because
there
was
in
his
face
an
outrageous
sensuality
;
but
,
though
it
sounds
nonsense
,
it
seemed
as
though
his
sensuality
were
curiously
spiritual
.
There
was
in
him
something
primitive
.
He
seemed
to
partake
of
those
obscure
forces
of
nature
which
the
Greeks
personified
in
shapes
part
human
and
part
beast
,
the
satyr
and
the
faun
.
I
thought
of
Marsyas
,
whom
the
god
flayed
because
he
had
dared
to
rival
him
in
song
.
Strickland
seemed
to
bear
in
his
heart
strange
harmonies
and
unadventured
patterns
,
and
I
foresaw
for
him
an
end
of
torture
and
despair
.
I
had
again
the
feeling
that
he
was
possessed
of
a
devil
;
but
you
could
not
say
that
it
was
a
devil
of
evil
,
for
it
was
a
primitive
force
that
existed
before
good
and
ill
.
He
was
still
too
weak
to
paint
,
and
he
sat
in
the
studio
,
silent
,
occupied
with
God
knows
what
dreams
,
or
reading
.
The
books
he
liked
were
queer
;
sometimes
I
would
find
him
poring
over
the
poems
of
Mallarme
,
and
he
read
them
as
a
child
reads
,
forming
the
words
with
his
lips
,
and
I
wondered
what
strange
emotion
he
got
from
those
subtle
cadences
and
obscure
phrases
;
and
again
I
found
him
absorbed
in
the
detective
novels
of
Gaboriau
I
amused
myself
by
thinking
that
in
his
choice
of
books
he
showed
pleasantly
the
irreconcilable
sides
of
his
fantastic
nature
.
It
was
singular
to
notice
that
even
in
the
weak
state
of
his
body
he
had
no
thought
for
its
comfort
.
Stroeve
liked
his
ease
,
and
in
his
studio
were
a
couple
of
heavily
upholstered
arm
-
chairs
and
a
large
divan
.
Strickland
would
not
go
near
them
,
not
from
any
affectation
of
stoicism
,
for
I
found
him
seated
on
a
three
-
legged
stool
when
I
went
into
the
studio
one
day
and
he
was
alone
,
but
because
he
did
not
like
them
.
For
choice
he
sat
on
a
kitchen
chair
without
arms
.
It
often
exasperated
me
to
see
him
.
I
never
knew
a
man
so
entirely
indifferent
to
his
surroundings
.
