cal knack of expression which is the least important part
of an artist's equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute
necessity. We have both tried hard to develop it--you and I--and we
have failed. It is better to face the truth."

"Much better," she agreed. "Oh, much better."

"Personally," he went on, "I must confess to a great disappointment. I
looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. I
overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack
of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I said to myself, 'this will
come.' It seems that I was mistaken. You cannot draw. Your fingers are
even now as stiff as a schoolgirl's. You will never be able to draw.
You have the ideas. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth,
but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will
not be painting. Take my advice. Burn your palette and your easel.
Give up your lonely hours of work here. Look somewhere else in life.
Depend upon it, there is a place for you--waiting. Here you only waste
your time."

She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could
not see her face. He drew a little breath of relief. The worst was
over now. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately.

"After all, there are great things left in the world for you. Painting
is only one slender branch of the great tree. To-night all this may
seem hard and cruel. To-morrow you will feel like a freed woman.
To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again--of other things."

A man of infinite tact and kindness, he spoke his message and went.
The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the
window.

She looked steadfastly out. Paris, always beautiful even in the
darkness, glittered away to the horizon. The lights of the Champs
Elysees and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant,
seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool
background of the night. She stood there with white set face and
nervously clenched fingers. The echo of those kindly words seemed
still to ring in her ears. She was crushed with a sense of her own
terrible impotency. A failure! She must write herself down a failure!
At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and
creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of
expression. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of
talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Ch