The North found and gripped him; these are not the ways of the South.
And in a moment the sense of contrast, thus provoked, had carried him far--out of the Westmoreland night, back to London, and his shabby studio in Bernard Street.

There, throned on a low platform, sat Madame de Pastourelles; and to her right, himself, sitting crouched before his easel, working with all his eyes and all his mind.

The memory of her was, as it were, physically stamped upon his sight, his hands; such an intensity of study had he given to every detail of her face and form.

Did he like her?
He didn't know.

There were a number of curious resentments in his mind with regard to her.