see the boy's cheek and throat muscles tighten; though he wasn't a whit less ideal a host to Marsh, or a whit less considerate a husband to Marceline.

"All this was generally in the afternoon; for Marceline rose very late, had breakfast in bed, and took an immense amount of time preparing to come downstairs. It was in these morning hours that Denis and Marsh did their real visiting, and exchanged the close confidences which kept their friendship up despite the strain that jealousy imposed.

"Well, it was in one of those morning talks on the veranda that Marsh made the proposition which brought on the end. I was laid up, but had managed to get downstairs and stretch out on the front parlor sofa near the long window. Denis and Marsh were just outside; so I couldn't help hearing all they said. They had been talking about art, and the curious, capricious environmental elements needed to jolt an artist into producing work of merit, when Marsh suddenly swerved from abstractions to the personal application he must have had in mind from the start.

"'I suppose,' he was saying, 'that nobody can tell just what it is in some scenes or objects that makes them esthetic stimuli for certain individuals. Basically, of course, it must have some reference to each man's background of stored-up mental associations; for no two people have the same scale of sensitiveness and responses. For some of us all ordinary things have ceased to have any emotional or imaginative significance, but no one responds in the same way to exactly the same extraordinary thing. Now take me, for instance....

"'I know, Denny, that I can say these things to you because you have such a preternaturally unspoiled mind—clean, objective, and all that. You won't misunderstand. The fact is, I think I know what's needed to set my imagination working again. I've had a dim idea of it ever since we were in Paris, but I'm sure now. It's Marceline, old chap; that face and that hair, and the train of shadowy images they bring up. Not merely visible beauty—though God knows there's enough of that—but something peculiar and individualized, that can't exactly be explained. Do you know, in the last few days I've felt the existence of such a stimulus so keenly that I honestly think I could outdo myself, if I could get hold of paint and canvas at just the time when her face and hair set my fancy stirring and weaving.

"'There is something weird and other-worldly about it, something joined up with the dim ancient thing Marceline represents. I don't know how much she's told you about 

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