from a chased silver box. The farouche element faded out of
his speech; his ideas remained as fresh and as simple as ever, but he
gave them a form, bless me! that might have been used at the Club. He
worked as hard as ever, but more variously; he tried his hand at several
new things. He said he was feeling about for something that would really
make his reputation.

In spite of all this his little measure of success made him more
contemptuous than before of its scene and its elements. He declared that
he had a poorer idea than ever of society now that he saw the pattern
from the smart side. That his convictions on this head survived one of
the best Simla tailors shows that they must always have been strong. I
think he believed that he was doing all that he did do to make himself
socially possible with the purpose of pleasing Dora Harris. I would
not now venture to say how far Dora inspired and controlled him in
this direction, and how far the impulse was his own. The measure of
appreciation that began to seek his pictures, poor and small though it
was, gave him, on the other hand, the most unalloyed delight. He talked
of the advice of Sir William Lamb as if it were anything but that of a
pompous old ass, and he made a feast with champagne for Blum that must
have cost him quite as much as Blum paid for the Breton sketch. He
confirmed my guess that he had never in his life until he came to Simla
sold anything, so that even these small transactions were great things
to him, and the earnest of a future upon which he covered his eyes not
to gaze too raptly. He mentioned to me that Kauffer had been asked
for his address--who could it possibly be?--and looked so damped by my
humourous suggestion that it was a friend of Kauffer's in some other
line who wanted a bill paid, that I felt I had been guilty of brutality.
And all the while the quality of his wonderful output never changed or
abated. Pure and firm and prismatic it remained. I found him one day at
the very end of October, with shining eyes and fingers blue with cold,
putting the last of the afternoon light on the snows into one of the
most dramatic hill pictures I ever knew him to do. He seemed intoxicated
with his skill, and hummed the 'Marseillaise,' I remember, all the way
to Amy Villa whither I accompanied him.

It was the last day of Kauffer's contract; and besides, all the world,
secretaries, establishments, hill captains, grass widows, shops, and
sundries, was t