ise and deliberation were quite in keeping with the two
score years that subtly graved his visage; the passions in him were
sportive, half-fantastical, as though, together with his brain, they
had grown to a ripe worldliness. He inspired no distrust; his good
nature seemed all-pervading; he had the air of one who lavishes
disinterested counsel, and ever so little exalts himself with his
facile exuberance of speech.

'I have seen much of artists; known them intimately, and studied their
lives. One and all, they date their success from some passionate
experience. From a cold and conventional existence can come nothing but
cold and conventional art. You left England, broke away from the common
routine, from the artificial and the respectable. That was an
indispensable first step, and I have told you how I applauded it. But
you cannot stop at this. I begin to fear for you. There is a convention
of unconventionality: poor quarters, hard life, stinted pleasures--all
that kind of thing. I fear its effect upon you.'

'What choice have I?' exclaimed Alma, moved to familiar frankness. 'If
I _am_ poor, I must live poorly.'

He smiled graciously upon her, and raised his hand almost as though he
would touch her with reassuring kindness; but it was only to stroke his
trimmed beard.

'Oh, you have a choice, believe me,' came his airy answer. 'There's no
harm in poverty that doesn't last too long. You may have profited by
it; it is an experience. But now--Don't let us walk so far as to tire
you. Yes, we will turn. Variety of life, travel, all sorts of joys and
satisfactions--these are the things you need.'

'And if they are not within my reach?' she asked, without looking at
him.

'By-the-bye'--he disregarded her question--'your friend, Mrs. Carnaby,
has taken a long flight.'

'Yes.'

The monosyllable was dropped. Alma walked with her eyes on the ground,
trailing her sunshade.

'I didn't think she had much taste for travel. But you know her so much
better than I do.'

'She is enjoying herself,' said Alma.

'No need for _you_ to go so far. Down yonder'--he nodded southward--'I
was thinking, the other day, of the different kinds of pleasure one
gets from scenery in different parts of the world. I have seen the
tropics; they left me very much where I was, intellectually. It's the
human associations of natural beauty that count. You have no desire to
go to the islands of the Pacific?'

'I can't say that I have.'

'Of cou