lans. As long as a man can do that, he's
on the upward grade.--And he had talent, you said so yourself, and
unlimited perseverance."

"Good God, Madeleine" burst out Krafft. "That you should have been in
this place as long as you have, and still remain so immaculate!--Surely
you realise that something more than talent and perseverance is
necessary? One can have talent as one has a hat ... use it or not as
one likes.--I tell you, the mill Guest is going through may be his
salvation--artistically."

"And morally?" asked Madeleine, not without bitterness. "Must one give
thanks then, if one's friend doesn't turn out a genius?"

Krafft shrugged his shoulders. "As you take it. The artist has as much
to do with morality, as, let us say, your musical festivals have to do
with art.--And if his genius isn't strong enough to float him, he goes
under, UND DAMIT BASTA! The better for art. There are bunglers
enough.--But I'll tell you this," he rose on his elbow again, and spoke
more warmly. "Since I've seen what our friend is capable of; how he has
allowed himself to be absorbed; since, in short, he has behaved In such
a highly un-British way--well, since then, I have some hope of him. He
seems open to impression.--And impressions are the only things that
matter to the artist."

"Oh, don't go on, please! I'm sick to death of the very words art and
artist."

"Cheer up, Mada! You've nothing of the kind in your blood." He
stretched himself and yawned. "Nor has he, either, I believe. A face
may deceive. And a clear head, and unlimited perseverance, and
intelligence, and ambition--none of these things is enough. The Lord
asks more of his chosen."

Madeleine clasped her hands behind her head, and tilted back her chair.

"So you couldn't interfere, I see? Your artistic conscience would
forbid it."

"Why don't you do it yourself?" He scrutinised her face, with a
sarcastic smile.

"Oh, say it out! I know what you think."

"And am I not right?"

"No, you're not. How I hate the construction you put on things! In your
eyes, nothing is pure or disinterested. You can't even imagine to
yourself a friendship between a man and a woman. Such a thing isn't
known here--in your nation of artists. Your men are too inflammatory,
and too self-sufficient, to want their calves fatted for any but the
one sacrifice. Girls have their very kitchen-aprons tied on them with
an undermeaning. And poor souls, who can blame them for submitting!
What a