nd Wyndham,
promising faithfully to be punctual, closed the door after him.

V

But his visitor had no sooner departed than Wyndham experienced a sharp
revulsion of feeling. How stupid to have accepted this invitation! His
isolation in this suburban wilderness had always afforded him a certain
satisfaction--he had consistently maintained his magnificent want of
interest in all this Philistine population. His studio was his castle,
and if he chose to starve therein it was at least a mitigation of his
misery to be able to do so without the sense of others' eyes prying at
him. And now he had surrendered his privacy. The indiscretion was really
inexplicable! And he had let his tongue run on so recklessly and
confidentially! He might even have drawn back at the very last--alleged
an engagement, and cut short the acquaintanceship there and then.
Perhaps it was not yet too late!

In his annoyance he started pacing the length of the studio. But the
great canvas, still glistening there on the easel, suddenly claimed his
attention again, and brought him to a standstill. Impulsively he caught
up the lamp, and once more directed its light on to the surface. The
picture took deep hold of him, and he stood absorbed in it. And somehow
Mr. Robinson's wondering voice began to sound its praises. "Marvellous!"
the old man seemed to be saying. "It doesn't need an art education to
see that's a work of genius." And as he recalled each stroke of
admiration, he nodded his head in agreement.

Was not the old man's appreciation of good augury? Surely it
foreshadowed a popular Academy success. Whatever one's personal art
ideals, it did not detract from their worth if one could carry them out
and please the crowd at the same time--incidentally, of course--without
deliberate intention. Did not Moliere first try his comedies on his
housekeeper? Mr. Robinson's tastes were the tastes of the great
public--nay, of even the better classes that went to the galleries. Like
him, they dwelt entirely on the illustrative aspect of painting, and
were altogether swayed by the humanity of a picture, by its dramatic or
anecdotal interest. No wonder some of his fellow-craftsmen had been
driven to the opposite extreme, and tried to rule out humanity
altogether. But the human side of art need not be necessarily on a low
plane, or descend to mere anecdote. In his hands art should be the
vehicle of real intellect and emotion.

If only he were not forced t