een in your work only the cold splendour, or
dreamy glamour, or the untroubled sweetness and brilliancy of
passionless romance. I love your work. It is happiness to look at it; it
thrills, bewitches, enthralls!... Dear, forgive me if in it I have not
yet found a deeper inspiration.... And that inspiration, to be there,
must be first in you, my darling--born of a wider interest in your
fellow men, a little tenderness for friends--a more generous experience
and more real sympathy with humanity--and perhaps you may think it out
of place for me to say it--but--a deeper, truer, spiritual conviction.

"Do you think it strange of me to have such convictions? I can't escape
them. Those who are merciful, those who are kind, to me are Christ-like.
Nothing else matters. But to be kind is to be first of all interested in
the happiness of others. And you care nothing for people. You _must_
care, Louis!

"And, somehow, you who are, at heart, good and kind and merciful, have
not really awakened real love in many of those about you. For one thing
your work has absorbed you. But if, at the same time, you could pay a
little more attention to human beings--"

"Valerie!" he said in astonishment, "I have plenty of friends. Do you
mean to say I care nothing for them?"

"How much _do_ you care, Louis?"

"Why, I--" He fell silent, troubled gaze searching hers.

She smiled: "Take Sam, for example. The boy adores you. He's a rotten
painter, I know--and you don't even pretend to an interest in what he
does because you are too honest to praise it. But, Louis, he's a lovable
fellow--and he does the best that's in him. You needn't pretend to care
for what he does--but if you could show that you do care for and respect
the effort--"

"I do, Valerie--when I think about it!"

"Then think about it; and let Sam know that you think about his efforts
and himself. And do the same for Harry Annan. He's a worse painter than
Sam--but do you think he doesn't know it? Don't you realise what a lot
of heartache the monkey-shines of those two boys conceal?"

"I am fond of them," he said, slowly. "I like people, even if I don't
show it--"

"Ah, Louis! Louis! That is the world's incurable hurt--the silence that
replies to its perplexity--the wistful appeal that remains
unanswered.... And many, many vex God with the desolation of their
endless importunities and complaints when a look, a word, a touch from a
human being would relieve them of the heaviest of