ital. Himself, the man,
occupied with the matured work of life; Grizel, the woman, instinct with
the lure of her sex. He held the roses towards her that she might enjoy
their fragrance, and for a minute they stood in silence, side by side.
Then Grizel raised her head, and looked into his face with a long,
penetrating glance. This was the real moment of their meeting, and both
silently recognised it as such.

"How goes it, Martin?" she asked in her soft rich voice. "How goes it?"

"Haltingly, Grizel, haltingly!" his smile flickered, and died out.
"We'll talk of that presently; you are the one person to whom I _can_
talk on that subject, but first of all there is something else.
Prisoner at the Bar.--_Why don't you like my book_?"

His voice was gentle, bantering, almost tender in tone. There was not
the faintest touch of offence, but Grizel's discomfiture was as naive
and undisguised as that of a child.

"Martin! you said that we were not to discuss--"

"Not in public; not at meals, not even before Katrine, but certainly
when we are alone. There's no getting out of it, Grizel. You said
nothing, it was only a tone, but as it happens I understand your tones.
The book may run through a dozen editions, but for you it has failed.
Why?"

She stood before him, slim and straight, her face puckered in thought.

"I--don't--know! Everything,--or was it nothing, Martin?"

"Can I help you to find out? A few leading questions perhaps... Is it
clever?"

"Very clever."

"Original?"

"Original!"

"Interesting?"

"Quite interesting."

"Clever, original, and interesting, and already in its third edition!
What would you have more, Mistress Critic?"

Grizel lifted her right hand, and lightly tapped her heart.

"Clever, interesting, original, but it didn't _touch_! The craft is
good, Martin; you are a skilful workman--I think you grow more and more
skilful, but--"

"Go on, Grizel; don't be afraid. Tell me the whole truth."

Grizel faced him in silence. It was not often that so grave and
thoughtful an air was seen upon her sparkling face. Her eyes gazed past
his, far away into the night.

"Once," she said dreamily, "there was a painter. He painted marvellous
pictures, but it was the depth and tone of his colouring which made him
celebrated over all the world. And of all his colours there was one in
particular which appeared in all his pictures, and the secret of which
his fellow-artists tried in vain t