gry was
almost an illness to his over-finely organized temperament. In a way,
Griggs had been right in saying that Reanda seemed to paint as an agent
in the power of an unseen, directing influence. Beauty made him feel
itself, and feel for it in his turn with his brush. The conception was
before him, guiding his hand, before a stroke of the work was done.
There was the lightning-like co-respondence and mutual reaction between
thought and execution, which has been explained by some to be the
simultaneous action of two minds in man, the subjective and the
objective. In doing certain things he had the patience and the delicacy
of one for whom time has no meaning. He could not have told whether his
hand followed his eye, or his eye followed his hand. His whole being was
of excessively sensitive construction, and emotion of any kind, even
pleasure, jarred upon its hair-fine sensibilities. And yet, behind all
this, there was the tenacity of the great artist and the phenomenal
power of endurance, in certain directions, which is essential to
prize-winning in the fight for fame. There was the quality of nerve
which can endure great tension in one way, but can bear nothing in other
ways.

He went on, giving vent to all he felt, talking to himself rather than
to Francesca. He could not reproach his wife with any one action of
importance. She was fond of Paul Griggs. But it was only Griggs! He
smiled. In his eyes, the cold-faced man was no more than a stone. In
their excursions into society she had met men whom he considered far
more dangerous, men young, handsome, rich, having great names. They
admired her and said so to her in the best language they had, which was
no doubt often very eloquent. Had she ever looked twice at one of them?
No. He could not reproach her with that. The Duchess of Astrardente was
not more cold to her admirers than Gloria was. It was not that. There
were little things, little nothings, but in thousands. He tried to
please her with something, and she laughed in his face, or found fault.
She had small hardnesses and little vulgarities of manner that drove him
mad.

"I had thought her like you," he said suddenly, turning to Francesca.
"She is not. She is coarse-grained. She has the soul of a peasant, with
the face of a Madonna. What would you have? It is too much. Love is an
illusion. I will have no more of it. Besides, love is dead. It would be
easier to wake a corpse. I shall live. I may forget. Meanwhil