at's what the dubs always say," was the reply. "It's so much easier
to paint."

He spent a day going around, looking at the better students' work,
asking them how they had learned to draw as "Old Velvet" wanted them to.
They had a great many things to say that sounded technical, but he heard
nothing that opened a way to him.

He hated the school; he hated the street that led to it, with a quiet
ground swell of hatred. But, deepest of all, he hated his own despair.
He felt that his shattered courage would never heal. He was like a
dishonored soldier whose sword has been publicly broken. He remembered
the fine things he had said to Teevan about his ambition, and the blush
that suffused him ached. At the thought of Mrs. Laithe bringing him from
his wild beast's hole, as if he had been worth her splendid faith, his
heart withered within him. At intervals he started as if he suddenly
awoke, saying to himself, "And to think it could have ended like this!"

At the end of a fortnight he sat for three days without doing anything,
a stick of charcoal in his hand. He did not come again, and his fat
neighbor used up his charcoal paper, after putting fine mustaches on all
his crouching Venuses.

He had shunned his acquaintances during this time of travail. But twice
had he seen Teevan since his first day at the League. He had tried to be
cheerful at those meetings, still hoping the lines would come right, but
he felt each time that Teevan saw straight to his wretched heart of
doubt; and he would not risk another meeting until he could report an
overwhelming victory--or defeat, if it must be so.

That he did not for a day forget his good friend, there was ample
testimony; though this was of a nature that Teevan must remain oblivious
to. On the night of the day that saw his first buffeting he walked the
streets until late, rejoicing mournfully that there were still so many
people who did not know his shame. Half unwittingly he wandered into
Ninth Street, and stood a long time opposite Teevan's house, finding a
solace in his friend's possible nearness. Then, as the days of defeat
followed with so deadly a sequence, this walk and vigil became his
nightly habit. Sometimes the house was darkened. Then he felt free to
gaze at it. Sometimes there were lights, and his survey was brief and
furtive. Until the very last there was always a bit of hope to spice the
melancholy of this adventure: to-morrow the thing might be done as they
all d