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at one needs much more." "A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder." She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration. "These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise what it is like. There is genius here." "My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time." "A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book or attend a kit inspection?" "On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his profession." Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist." Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady, would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?" "Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches. Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear understanding and the power of feeling." "The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it." "Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then, making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing so, shows a fine moral fibre." Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her. Mar
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