Inferior women are quite a hobby of
his.' I remarked that she seemed to know him very well and her
eyes became dead blank again. I asked if she knew the family,
and she nodded. He has a brother, clever too, but in a different
way. 'Oh, what became of him?' I asked. 'I suppose,' she said,
'he married some worthy middle-class creature and settled down
somewhere. He wrote a book, but it didn't sell. I didn't read
it. It was about machinery and the sea, and I loathe the sea. It
bores me.'

* * * * *

"Well, my dear Bill, I'll bore you if I run on like this much
longer. But I was very much struck by this girl of whom
D'Aubigne had told me, especially as she mentioned your
neighbour, and in view of Carville's antics. He never mentions
his own affairs, as indeed why should he? But he seems, as he
stands or sits watching me at work (for I have at last knocked
it into his head that _light_ is more precious to an artist than
conversation) he seems to be eternally bothered by the
fundamental differences that exist among men. He asks 'Why do
you _do_ it?' Now imagine the mind of a man who asks an artist
why he paints! He will stare at my plate as I work, with his big
black brows knitted, as if in a trance. And suddenly he will
shrug his shoulders and take up his hat and go off without a
word. Sometimes he doesn't come for several days. The last time
I saw him was a week ago. I must tell you about it. I felt all
cramped and muggy, and as the day was fine, biked over to the
aerodrome. When I arrived D'Aubigne was looking through a pair
of prism glasses. 'Where's Carville?' I said as I got off. He
handed me the glasses and pointed up between two masses of
billowy clouds. I stared and finally focussed on a minute speck
against the blue. It was incredible, and, I think, sublime. I
must say it thrilled me to see it. It is something new in life,
if not in art, this supreme triumph over gravity. I am serious!
Slowly he passed behind the cloud and I came back to earth. 'How
high is he?' I asked casually, and it was like a match to
tinder. D'Aubigne's battered, sensual old face lighted up and he
cackled, 'How high? How do I know! Come. We will ask him!' As
you may imagine, I nearly fell over in my surprise. He led the
way t