more useful," Dick suggested.

"Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you
can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards
who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a
gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My
notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty
and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need
to make them ugly."

"Then you're a bit of an artist?"

"I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man
has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick
against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up
was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks
decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but
had to acquiesce."

"It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as
if you were different from the rest of us."

"We _are_ different," Jake rejoined with a twinkle. "It's our business to
see the truth of things, while you try to make it fit your formulas about
what you think is most useful to yourself or society. A formula's like
bad spectacles; it distorts the sight, and yours is plainly out of focus.
For example, I guess you're satisfied with the white clothes you're
wearing."

"I don't know that it's important, but what's the matter with them?"

"Well," said Jake, with a critical glance, "they're all wrong. Now you've
got good shoulders, your figure's well balanced, and I like the way you
hold your head, but your tailor has spoiled every prominent line. I'll
show you some time when I model you in clay." He paused and grinned. "I
guess the Roman sentinel pose would suit you best, as I noted it when you
stood on the mole waiting for me, determined to do your duty at any cost.
Besides, there is something of the soldier about you."

"I wish you'd stop rotting," said Dick with a touch of awkwardness,
though he saw that Jake knew nothing about his leaving the army. "Was it
your father's notion that you should be an engineer?"

"He thinks so," Jake answered, grinning. "My opinion is that you have to
thank my sister Ida for the job of looking after me. She made this her
business until I went to Yale, when, of course, she lost control. Ida has
a weakness for managing people, for their good, but you ought to take it
as a delicate