mmered; "but you never bother with girls, and
you don't drink or smoke--"

"No," he said.

"Well," I continued, "you ought to have a little relaxation; you're
knocking yourself up." And, indeed, he looked awfully ill.

But he shook his head.

"A man's only a definite amount of force in him, Pudgie," he said, "and
if he spends it in one way he goes short in another. Mine goes--there."
He glanced at the statue. "I rarely sleep now," he added.

"Then you ought to see a doctor," I said, a bit alarmed. (I'd felt sure
he was ill.)

"No, no, Pudgie. My force is all going there--all but the minimum that
can't be helped, you know.... You've heard artists talk about 'putting
their soul into their work,' Pudgie?"

"Don't rub it in about my rotten miniatures, Benlian," I asked him.

"You've heard them say that; but they're charlatans, professional
artists, all, Pudgie. They haven't got any souls bigger than a sixpence
to put into it.... You know, Pudgie, that Force and Matter are the same
thing--that it's decided nowadays that you can't define matter otherwise
than as 'a point of Force'?"

"Yes," I found myself saying eagerly, as if I'd heard it dozens of times
before.

"So that if they could put their souls into it, it would be just as easy
for them to put their _bodies_ into it?..."

I had drawn very close to him, and again--it was not fancy--I felt as if
somebody, not me, was using my mouth. A flash of comprehension seemed to
come into my brain.

"_Not that, Benlian_?" I cried breathlessly.

He nodded three or four times, and whispered. I really don't know why we
both whispered.

"_Really that, Benlian_?" I whispered again.

"Shall I show you?... I tried my hardest not to, you know,..." he still
whispered.

"Yes, show me!" I replied in a suppressed voice.

"Don't breathe a sound then! I keep them up there...."

He put his finger to his lips as if we had been two conspirators; then he
tiptoed across the studio and went up to his bedroom in the gallery.
Presently he tiptoed down again, with some rolled-up papers in his hand.
They were photographs, and we stooped together over a little table. His
hand shook with excitement.

"You remember this?" he whispered, showing me a rough print.

It was one of the prints from the fogged plates that I'd taken after that
first night.

"Come closer to me if you feel frightened, Pudgie," he said. "You said
they were old plates, Pudgie. No no; the plates were all right;