he does. And yet--and yet--sometimes we love men for their
shortcomings--for the sincerity of their blunders--for the fallible
humanity in them. That after all is where love starts. The rest--what
Kelly shows us--evokes wonder, delight, awe, enthusiasm.... If he could
only make us love him--"

"_I_ love him!" said Burleson.

"We all are inclined to--if we could get near enough to him," said Annan
with a faint smile.

"Him--or his work?"

"Both, John. There's a vast amount of nonsense talked about the
necessity of separation between a man and his work--that the public has
no business with the creator, only with his creations. It is partly
true. Still, no man ever created anything in which he did not include a
sample of himself--if not what he himself is, at least what he would
like to be and what he likes and dislikes in others. No creator who
shows his work can hope to remain entirely anonymous. And--I am not yet
certain that the public has no right to make its comments on the man who
did the work as well as on the work which it is asked to judge."

"The man is nothing; the work everything," quoted Burleson, heavily.

"So I've heard," observed Annan, blandly. "It's rather a precious
thought, isn't it, John?"

"Do you consider that statement to be pure piffle?"

"Partly, dear friend. But I'm one of those nobodies who cherish a
degenerate belief that man comes first, and then his works, and that the
main idea is to get through life as happily as possible with the minimum
of inconvenience to others. Human happiness is what I venture to
consider more important than the gim-cracks created by those same
humans. Man first, then man's work, that's the order of mundane
importance to me. And if you've got to criticise the work, for God's
sake do it with your hand on the man's shoulder."

"Our little socialist," said Ogilvy, patting Annan's blonde head. "He
wants to love everybody and everybody to love him, especially when
they're ornamental and feminine. Yes? No?" he asked, fondly coddling
Annan, who submitted with a bored air and tried to kick his shins.

Later, standing in a chance group on the sidewalk before scattering to
their several occupations, Burleson said:

"That's a winner of a model--that Miss West. I used her for the fountain
I'm doing for Cardemon's sunken garden. I never saw a model put together
as she is. And that's going some."

"She's a dream," said Ogilvy--"_un pen sauvage_--no inclination to
s