months every year. Try it, my
friend. Don't you even keep _mi-careme_?"

Neville stared out of the window at the station platform past which
they were gliding, and rose with Querida as the train stopped. His
sister's touring car was waiting; into it stepped Querida, and he
followed; and away they sped over the beautiful rolling country, where
handsome cattle tried to behave like genuine Troyon's, and silvery sheep
attempted to imitate Mauve, and even the trees, separately or in groups,
did their best to look like sections of Rousseau, Diaz, and even
Corot--but succeeded only in resembling questionable imitations.

"There's to be quite a week-end party?" inquired Querida.

"I don't know. My sister telephoned me to fill in. I fancy the party is
for you."

"For _me_!" exclaimed Querida with delightful enthusiasm. "That is most
charming of Mrs. Collis."

"They'll all think it charming of you. Lord, what a rage you've become
and what a furor you've aroused!... And you deserve it," added Neville,
coolly.

Querida looked at him, calm intelligence in his dark gaze; and
understood the honesty of the comment.

"That," he said, "if you permit the vigour of expression, is damn nice
of you, Neville. But you can afford to be generous to other painters."

"Can I?" Neville turned and gazed at Querida, gray eyes clear in their
searching inquiry. Then he laughed a little and looked out over the
sunny landscape.

Querida's olive cheeks had reddened a trifle.

Neville said: "What _is_ the trouble with my work, anyway? Is it what
some of you fellows say?"

Querida did not pretend to misunderstand:

"You're really a great painter, Neville. And you know it. Must you have
_everything_?"

"Well--I'm going after it."

"Surely--surely. I, also. God knows my work lacks many, many things--"

"But it doesn't lack that one essential which mine lacks. _What_ is it?"

Querida laughed: "I can't explain. For me--your Byzantine canvas--there
is in it something not intimate--"

"Austere?"

"Yes--even in those divine and lovely throngs. There is, perhaps, an
aloofness--even a self-denial--" He laughed again: "I deny myself
nothing--on canvas--even I have the audacity to try to draw as you do!"

Neville sat thinking, watching the landscape speed away on either side
in a running riot of green.

"Self-denial--too much of it--separates you from your kind," said
Querida. "The solitary fasters are never personally pleasant; hermits
are