Ride is least adapted to our homely instrument.
Nevertheless the wild clatter, the exciting crepitation of the treble,
the thunderous booming of the bass, and above all the tremendous crash
with which it ends, always stimulates me to fresh mental effort. I saw
plainly, as I listened, that my surmise was correct. I saw that I had no
need to wait for the explanation of the phrase: "An author? Ah!" I saw,
in short, that Mr. Carville, whatever he might be in the eyes of his
wife, his brother, or of the world, was a potential artist. As I
recapitulated to myself the various points in his tale, the careful
balancing of his narrative with sententious criticism of life, the
occasional fiction, to give verisimilitude to trivial events (the
incident of Belvoir for example), and particularly his abrupt departure
in the dusk, leaving us guessing, I felt certain that for me his tale
would have a denouement of peculiar interest. Already I perceived the
deliberate attempt of the man to convey the obscure and rare emotion
which dominated his intellectual life.

Afterwards, in the studio, I suggested that the story of Turner's
sugar-plums might throw some light upon Mr. Carville's story.

"How?" said Mac, who is reluctant to see profane hands touch the
master-colourist's memory. I explained again.

"He is taking a lot of romantic episodes, mixing them up, adding a
little imaginary landscape and offering it to us," I said. "We asked for
a story. We shall have it, says he."

"He's such an ordinary looking chap," began Mac. Bill laughed.

"So am I," I retorted with a grin.

"You know what I mean," he protested. "I meant ordinary in voice and
general tone. But if what you say is true he must be a damn clever
chap."

"An artist," I agreed.

"I can't make him out," said Bill, sewing busily. "What in the world has
all this to do with his children? _I_ want to know where they met."

"So you will, dear lady, never fear," I said, smiling. "I think Mr.
Carville understands your desire perfectly."

"Oh, I know I'm a very simple person----" she began.

"By no means," I cried. "Mr. Carville would never suggest such a thing.
But think for a moment! Is it not a fair guess that a man like our
neighbour, who has had such a varied career, who can divine _my_
interest in him as an author, and Mac's as an artist, will be able to
fathom the reason why you watch him with a tense and silent stare?"

"Did I stare?" she said. "I'm sorry."

"We al