his idea of sending a kid over here to be brought up
an Englishman--phew! She's read something like that in a book, I'll bet.
Well, here's Miss Bailey. You must excuse me. If you're in London next
month, come and see my show at the New Gallery. And Sunday nights at
supper. How I envy you going to the Mediterranean. My dream ...
Good-bye.'

"Well," said Mr. Spenlove, after a moment of silent reflection, "I came
out of the Kentish Studios and climbed into my cab feeling very much as
though I had been skinned. That terrible young man seemed to have left
me without a single illusion about myself. I have discovered since that
he is recognized now as a painter of unusual power. He is making a name.
But to me he will always be the merciless analyst of human emotion. He
had the bitterness of those who escape love. He spared neither himself,
nor me, nor the girl. He almost frightened me with the accuracy of his
diagnosis. As the cab sped along the Tottenham Court Road on its way
back to the Strand I wondered what he would have thought of Captain
Macedoine himself, that master of illusion who was always playing up to
the imaginary being one had in one's mind. I suppose creative artists
see through each other's tricks. An artist is one who imposes upon our
legitimate aspirations.

"I paid off the cab in the Strand and walked into the hotel. Men and
women in evening dress were alighting for early theatre-dinners. I sent
up my name as before. I had no very clear idea what I wanted to do. Oh,
of course I wanted to see her again. I had no scruples. She was more
interesting, more her father's daughter, than ever, to me now. As
Florian Kelly had said, she was a wonder, but she could do me no harm.
She was an artist, let us say, and as such I wished to see her at work.
Beyond that there was another feeling, a sort of fatherly affection--a
silly notion of protecting her from herself. But that young devil of a
painter had divined that, too, and I sat down to wait, ashamed, amused,
astonished. I recalled the conversations we had had on the ship and on
the cliff, the subtle implication in her voice, the pity she had
inspired in me by the contemplation of her disastrous fate. I had put my
arm round her, given her my address, behaved like a sentimental old
fool. And all the time her brain had been working, weighing, comparing,
judging chances, and leading me on. But had she done so? Oh, women are
wonderful! Their emotional imperturbability de