an I could when I was eighteen."

"What makes you think you have any talent?"

He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the
passing throng, but I do not think he saw it. His answer was
no answer.

"I've got to paint."

"Aren't you taking an awful chance?"

He looked at me. His eyes had something strange in them,
so that I felt rather uncomfortable.

"How old are you? Twenty-three?"

It seemed to me that the question was beside the point.
It was natural that I should take chances; but he was a man whose
youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of
respectability, a wife and two children. A course that would
have been natural for me was absurd for him. I wished to be
quite fair.

"Of course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter,
but you must confess the chances are a million to one
against it. It'll be an awful sell if at the end you have to
acknowledge you've made a hash of it."

"I've got to paint," he repeated.

"Supposing you're never anything more than third-rate, do you
think it will have been worth while to give up everything?
After all, in any other walk in life it doesn't matter if
you're not very good; you can get along quite comfortably if
you're just adequate; but it's different with an artist."

"You blasted fool," he said.

"I don't see why, unless it's folly to say the obvious."

"I tell you I've got to paint. I can't help myself. When a
man falls into the water it doesn't matter how he swims,
well or badly: he's got to get out or else he'll drown."

There was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself I
was impressed. I seemed to feel in him some vehement power
that was struggling within him; it gave me the sensation of
something very strong, overmastering, that held him, as it were,
against his will. I could not understand. He seemed
really to be possessed of a devil, and I felt that it might
suddenly turn and rend him. Yet he looked ordinary enough.
My eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him no
embarrassment. I wondered what a stranger would have taken
him to be, sitting there in his old Norfolk jacket and his
unbrushed bowler; his trousers were baggy, his hands were not
clean; and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved
chin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressive nose,
was uncouth and coarse. His mouth was large, his lips were heavy
and sensual. No; I could not have placed him.

"You won't go back to your wife?" I