ing talents, the ludicrous ambitions of the
amateur; she was altogether innocent of intellectual vanity.

"That reminds me," said she, "that I've seen nothing of those
wonderful sketches you said you'd show me."

He had clean forgotten the things. Well, he could hardly do better
than exhibit them; it would keep her quiet, and save him from
perilous personalities.

At first he thought the exhibition was going to give her more pain
than pleasure. He sat beside her, and she took the sketches from him
gingerly, one by one, and looked at them without a word. A visible
nervousness possessed her; her pulses clamored, she seemed to
struggle with her own unsteady breathing. Once, when in the transfer
of a drawing her hand brushed against his, she drew it back again as
if it had dashed against a flame. Durant had noticed once or twice
before that she avoided his touch.

Suddenly she awoke out of the agony of her consciousness. One
picture had held her longer than the rest.

"It's beautiful--beautiful," she murmured.

"I'm glad you like it," said Durant, pleased at her first sign of
admiration.

"Oh, I don't mean your picture--I mean the place."

"It's not a very good picture perhaps----"

"I don't know whether it's good or bad; it seems to me rather bad,
though I can't say what's wrong with it. It looks unfinished."

"It _is_ unfinished, but that's not what's wrong with it. These are
better--better painting."

His hand brushed hers in vain this time. She remained absorbed. "I
don't care two straws about the painting; they may be masterpieces
for all I know; it's _that_--that stretch of sand licked by the sea,
and the grass trodden down by the wind--the agony and beauty and
desolation of it----" She laid it down unwillingly, and took the
others from his hand.

"Oh, what's this?"

"A wall in Suza."

"I've never seen anything like that. The light seems to be
moving--soaking into it and streaming out again. It looks as if it
would burn if you touched it."

The artist in him laughed for pure pleasure. "It's all very well,
you know, but they must be infernally good if they make you feel
like that."

"They may be. Have you seen all these things, or have you done any
of them out of your head?"

"Seen them, of course. I never paint 'out of my head'; I haven't
enough imagination."

"Show me more places where you've been. Tell me about them. You
might have done that before."

He obeyed, giving her his experience,