hought of the danger
of a result like this. In the midst of his reflections
an idea came to him about the portrait, and he observed,
with irritation, after giving it a few touches, that the
light was irretrievably gone for the day.

Next morning he worked for three hours at it without a
pang, and in the afternoon with relaxed nerves and a high
heart, he took his hat and turned his face toward Kensington
Square. The distance was considerable, but he walked
lightly, rapidly, with a conscious enjoyment of that form
of relief to his wrought nerves, his very limbs drawing
energy from the knowledge of his finished work. Never
before had he felt so completely the divine sense of
success, and though he had worked at the portrait with
passionate concentration from the beginning, this
realization had come to him only the day before, when,
stepping back to look with Elfrida, he saw what he had
done. Troubled as the revelation was, in it he saw himself
a master. He had for once escaped, and he felt that the
escape was a notable one, from the tyranny of his
brilliant-technique. He had subjected it to his idea,
which had grown upon the canvas obscure to him under his
own brush until that final moment, and he recognized with
astonishment how relative and incidental the truth of
the treatment seemed in comparison with the truth of the
idea.

With the modern scornful word for the literary value of
paintings on his lips, Kendal was forced to admit that
in this his consummate picture, as he very truly thought
it, the chief significance lay elsewhere than in the
brushing and the color--they were only its dramatic
exponents--and the knowledge of this brought him a new
and glorious sense of control. It had already carried
him further in power, this portrait, it would carry him
further in place, than anything he had yet done; and the
thought gave a sparkle to the delicious ineffable content
that bathed his soul. He felt that the direction of his
walk intensified his eager physical joy in it. He was
going to Janet with his success, as he had always gone
to her. As soon as the absorbing vision of his work had
admitted another perception, it was Janet's sympathy,
Janet's applause, that had mingled itself with his certain
reward. He could not say that it had inspired him in
the least, but it formed a very essential part of his
triumph. He could wish her more exacting, but this time
he had done something that should make her less easy to