ess. Look, sir, she--

'Forgets, remembers, grieves, and is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her weak, or wise, or tired, or glad.'"

Dr. Grey bit his lip, but shook his head.

"You must read me your painted riddle more explicitly. Is it Ceres?"

"No, sir; a few sheaves do not make a harvest. I am a stupid bungler,
spoiling canvas and wasting paint, or else you are as obtuse as the
critics who may one day hover hungrily over it. Try the aid of one
more clew, and if you fail to catch my purpose, I will dash my brush
all loaded with ochre, right into those mystic, prescient eyes, and
blur them forever. Listen, and guess,--

'This is my lady's praise;
God after many days
Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;
This was my lady's birth,
God gave her might and mirth
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.'"

"Pray do not visit the sin of my stupidity upon that fascinating
picture. I am not familiar with the lines you quote, but know that you
have represented Nature, have embodied an ideal Isis, or Hertha, or
Cybele; though I can not positively name the phase of the Universal
Mother, which you have seized and perpetuated."

He caught her arm, and removed from her fingers the palette and
brushes.

"Dr. Grey, it is more than either or all of the three you mention; for
Persian mythology, like Persian wines and Persian roses, is richer,
more subtle, more fragrant, more glowing than any other. That woman is
'_Espendermad_.'"

"Thank you; now I comprehend the whole. God has endowed you with
wonderful talent. The fruit and flowers in that foreground must have
cost you much labor, for indeed you seem to have faithfully followed
the injunction of Titian, 'Study the effect of light and shade on a
bunch of grapes.' That luscious amber cluster lying near the poppies
is tantalizingly suggestive of Rhineland, and of the vines that
garland the hills of Crete and Cyprus."

A shade of annoyance and disappointment crossed the artist's face.

"Now, I quite realize what Cespedes felt, when, finding that visitors
were absorbed by the admirable finish of some jars and vases in the
foreground of the 'Last Supper,' upon which he had expended so much
time and thought, he called his servant and exclaimed in great
chagrin, 'Andres, rub me out these things, since, after all my care
and study, people choose to see nothing but these impertinences.'"