ollen. The low walls that enclosed the two gardens were
in need of creepers. Little by little, this grace was added to them. I
stood silently watching.

I kept silent for fear of discommoding him. All artists--by which
I mean, of course, all good artists--are shy. They are trustees of
something not entrusted to us others; they bear fragile treasure, not
safe in a jostling crowd; they must ever be wary. And especially shy
are those artists whose work is apart from words. A man of letters can
mitigate his embarrassment among us by a certain glibness. Not so can
the man who works through the medium of visual form and colour. Not
so, I was sure, could the young architect and landscape-gardener here
creating. I would have moved away had I thought my mere presence was a
bother to him; but I decided that it was not: being a grown-up person, I
did not matter; he had no fear that I should offer violence to his work.
It was his coevals that made him uneasy. Groups of these would pause in
their wild career to stand over him and watch him in a fidgety manner
that hinted mischief. Suppose one of them suddenly jumped--on to the
cottage!

Fragile treasure, this, in a quite literal sense; and how awfully
exposed! It was spared, however. There was even legible on the faces of
the stolid little boys who viewed it a sort of reluctant approval.
Some of the little girls seemed to be forming with their lips the word
'pretty,' but then they exchanged glances with one another, signifying
'silly.' No one of either sex uttered any word of praise. And so,
because artists, be they never so agoraphobious, do want praise, I did
at length break my silence to this one. 'I think it splendid,' I said to
him.

He looked up at me, and down at the cottage. 'Do you?' he asked, looking
up again. I assured him that I did; and to test my opinion of him I
asked whether he didn't think so too. He stood the test well. 'I wanted
it rather diff'rent,' he answered.

'In what way different?'

He searched his vocabulary. More comf'table,' he found.

I knew now that he was not merely the architect and builder of the
cottage, but also, by courtesy of imagination, its tenant; but I was
tactful enough not to let him see that I had guessed this deep and
delicate secret. I did but ask him, in a quite general way, how the
cottage could be better. He said that it ought to have a porch--'but
porches tumble in.' He was too young an artist to accept quite meekly
the limi