What's the matter?
Have you been working through the summer in London ?' 'I'm all right,' Fenwick repeated; then, with a little grimace--'or I should be, if I could pay my way, and paint the things I want to paint.' He looked up.
'Well, why don't you ?' 'Because--somehow--one has to live.' Watson climbed on to his high stool, still observing his visitor.
For a good many years now, Fenwick had been always well and carefully dressed--an evident Londoner, accustomed to drawing-rooms and frequenting expensive tailors.

But to-day there was something in his tired, dishevelled look, and comparatively shabby coat, which reminded Watson of years long gone by--of a studio in Bernard Street, and a broad-browed, handsome fellow, with queer manners and a North-Country accent.

As to good looks, Fenwick's face and head were now far finer than they had been in first youth; Watson's critical eye took note of it.

The hair, touched lightly with grey, had receded slightly on the temples, and the more ample brow, heavily lined, gave a nobler shelter than of old to the still astonishing vivacity of the eyes.
The carriage of the head, too, was prouder and more assured.

Fenwick, indeed, as far as years went, was, as Watson knew, in the very prime of life.