ous conclusion.

She had been aware, in stage folk, of the tendency to sentimental
impulse; and she again discovered it in this new world, in a form
slightly modified by the higher average of reasoning power. In both
professions the heart played the dominant part in creator and creation.
The exceptions to the rule were the few in either profession who might
be called distinguished.

Neville had once said to her: "Nothing that amounts to anything in art
is ever done accidentally or merely because the person who creates it
loves to do it."

She was thinking of this, now, as she lay there watching him.

He had added: "Enthusiasm is excellent while you're dressing for
breakfast; but good pictures are painted in cold blood. Go out into the
back yard and yell your appreciation of the universe if you want to; but
the studio is a silent place; and a blank canvas a mathematical
proposition."

Could this be true? Was all the beauty, all the joyous charm, all the
splendour of shape and colour the result of working out a mathematical
proposition? Was this exquisite surety of touch and handling, of mass
and line composition, all these lovely depths and vast ethereal spaces
superbly peopled, merely the logical result of solving that problem? Was
it all clear, limpid, steady, nerveless intelligence; and was nothing
due to the chance and hazard of inspiration?

Gladys, the cat, walked in, gently flourishing her tail, hesitated,
looked around with narrowing green-jewelled eyes, and, ignoring the
whispered invitation and the outstretched hand, leaped lightly to a
chair and settled down on a silken cushion, paws and tail folded under
her jet-black body.

Valerie reproached her in a whisper, reminding her of past caresses and
attentions, but the cat only blinked at her pleasantly.

On a low revolving stand at Valerie's elbow lay a large lump of green
modelling wax. This wax Neville sometimes used to fashion, with his
facile hands, little figures sketched from his models. These he arranged
in groups as though to verify the composition on the canvas before him,
and this work and the pliant material which he employed had for her a
particular and never-flagging interest. And now, without thinking,
purely instinctively, she leaned forward and laid her hand caressingly
on the lump of wax. There was something about the yielding, velvety
texture that fascinated her, as though in her slim fingers some delicate
nerves were responding to th