shadows on white sand should
be blue,--ultramarine,--as they are. I found out, later, that the man
had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound
him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to
learn technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that.'

'When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?'

'I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal
magnetism. All he ever said was, "Continuez, mes enfants," and you had
to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he knew
something about colour. Kami used to dream colour; I swear he could
never have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was
good.'

'Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?' said Torpenhow, with a
provoking drawl.

Dick squirmed in his place. 'Don't! It makes me want to get out there
again. What colour that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret and
brick-red and sulphur--cockatoo-crest--sulphur--against brown, with a
nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a decorative
frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.' He
began to walk up and down. 'And yet, you know, if you try to give these
people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension and
according to the powers He has given you----'

'Modest man! Go on.'

'Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven't even been to Algiers will
tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it
isn't Art.

''This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you've been
promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.'

'I couldn't help it,' said Dick, penitently. 'You weren't here, and it
was lonely these long evenings. A man can't work for ever.'

'A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk.'

'I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they
were artists, and I knew some of them could draw,--but they wouldn't
draw. They gave me tea,--tea at five in the afternoon!--and talked about
Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I've heard
more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in
the whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some
continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a regular
Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the field in full fig, with
his water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writin