But his liking for Fenwick had never wavered through all the blare of Fenwick's success.
Was it that the older man with his melancholy Celtic instinct had divined from the first that he and Fenwick were in truth of the same race--the race of the [Greek: dusammoroi]--the ill-fated--those for whom happiness is not written in the stars?
He sat staring at his companion, his eyes dreamily intent, taking note of the restless depression of the man before him, and of the disagreeable facts which emerged from his talk--declining reputation, money difficulties, and--last and most serious--a new doubt of himself and his powers, which Watson never remembered to have noticed in him before.
'But you must have made a great deal of money!' he said to him once, interrupting him.
Fenwick turned away uneasily.
'So I did.

But there was the new house and studio.

I have been trying to sell the house.

But it's a white elephant.' 'Building's the deuce,' said Watson, gloomily.

'It ruins everybody from Louis Quatorze and Walter Scott downward.