could not possibly
observe him, he never removed his gaze from the canvas.

"You see, my medical friend, that there has been a great tide in the
night, following upon the flood? Even our small landmarks are shifted.
Soon, in my little carriage, I shall ride down to the Tower. I shall sit
there, and I shall watch the sea. I think that this evening, with the
turn of the tide, the spray may reach even to my windows there. I
shall paint again. There is always something fresh in the sea, you
know--always something fresh in the sea. Like a human face--angry or
pleased, sullen or joyful. Some people like to paint the sea at its
calmest and most beautiful. Some people like to see happy faces around
them. It is not every one who appreciates the other things. It is not
quite like that with me, eh, Sarson?"

His hand fell to his side. Momentarily he had finished his work. He
turned around and eyed the doctor, who stood in taciturn silence.

"Answer. Answer me," he insisted.

The doctor's gloomy face seemed darker still.

"You have spoken the truth, Mr. Fentolin," he admitted. "You are not one
of the vulgar herd who love to consort with pleasure and happiness. You
are one of those who understand the beauty of unhappiness--in others,"
he added, with faint emphasis.

Mr. Fentolin smiled. His face became almost like the face of one of
those angels of the great Italian master.

"How well you know me!" he murmured. "My humble effort, Doctor--how do
you like it?"

The doctor bent over the canvas.

"I know nothing about art," he said, a little roughly. "Your work seems
to me clever--a little grotesque, perhaps; a little straining after the
hard, plain things which threaten. Nothing of the idealist in your work,
Mr. Fentolin."

Mr. Fentolin studied the canvas himself for a moment.

"A clever man, Sarson," he remarked coolly, "but no courtier. Never
mind, my work pleases me. It gives me a passing sensation of happiness.
Now, what about our patient?"

"He recovers," the doctor pronounced. "From my short examination, I
should say that he had the constitution of an ox. I have told him that
he will be up in three days. As a matter of fact, he will be able, if he
wants to, to walk out of the house to-morrow."

Mr. Fentolin shook his head.

"We cannot spare him quite so soon," he declared. "We must avail
ourselves of this wonderful chance afforded us by my brilliant young
nephew. We must keep him with us for a little time. What