He seems to cry out; and is observed to make a dance step or two,
vigorously. The newcomer is a ruddy-faced, active, keen-looking
man, apparently of Irish ancestry. Next he is observed to laugh
immoderately; he kicks over the stove; he claps the artist (who is
vainly striving to grasp his hand) vehemently upon the back. Then
he goes through a pantomime which to the sufficiently intelligent
spectator reveals that he has acquired large sums of money by trading
pot-metal hatchets and razors to the Indians of the Cordillera
Mountains for gold dust. He draws a roll of money as large as a small
loaf of bread from his pocket, and waves it above his head, while at
the same time he makes pantomime of drinking from a glass. The artist
hurriedly secures his hat, and the two leave the studio together.

The Writing on the Sands

SCENE--_The Beach at Nice._ A woman, beautiful, still young,
exquisitely clothed, complacent, poised, reclines near the water,
idly scrawling letters in the sand with the staff of her silken
parasol. The beauty of her face is audacious; her languid pose is one
that you feel to be impermanent--you wait, expectant, for her to
spring or glide or crawl, like a panther that has unaccountably
become stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word that
she always writes is "Isabel." A man sits a few yards away. You can
see that they are companions, even if no longer comrades. His face is
dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable--but not quite. The two speak
little together. The man also scratches on the sand with his cane.
And the word that he writes is "Anchuria." And then he looks out
where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle, with death in his
gaze.

The Wilderness and Thou

SCENE--_The Borders of a Gentleman's Estate in a Tropical Land._ An
old Indian, with a mahogany-coloured face, is trimming the grass on a
grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and walks
slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief
twilight. In the edge of the grove stand a man who is stalwart, with
a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cut
loveliness. When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money
in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race,
takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of the
grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close--for,
after all, what is the world at its best but a little round