ich came down on either side of the picture
like the pillars of an arch. On the ground, between the legs of the
towering beast, lay the foreshortened figure of a man, the head in the
extreme foreground, the arms flung wide to right and left. A white,
relentless light poured down from a point in the right foreground. The
beast, the fallen man, were sharply illuminated; round them, beyond and
behind them, was the night. They were alone in the darkness, a universe
in themselves. The horse's body filled the upper part of the picture;
the legs, the great hoofs, frozen to stillness in the midst of their
trampling, limited it on either side. And beneath lay the man,
his foreshortened face at the focal point in the centre, his arms
outstretched towards the sides of the picture. Under the arch of the
horse's belly, between his legs, the eye looked through into an intense
darkness; below, the space was closed in by the figure of the prostrate
man. A central gulf of darkness surrounded by luminous forms...

The picture was more than half finished. Gombauld had been at work all
the morning on the figure of the man, and now he was taking a rest--the
time to smoke a cigarette. Tilting back his chair till it touched the
wall, he looked thoughtfully at his canvas. He was pleased, and at the
same time he was desolated. In itself, the thing was good; he knew
it. But that something he was after, that something that would be so
terrific if only he could catch it--had he caught it? Would he ever
catch it?

Three little taps--rat, tat, tat! Surprised, Gombauld turned his eyes
towards the door. Nobody ever disturbed him while he was at work; it
was one of the unwritten laws. "Come in!" he called. The door, which was
ajar, swung open, revealing, from the waist upwards, the form of Mary.
She had only dared to mount half-way up the ladder. If he didn't want
her, retreat would be easier and more dignified than if she climbed to
the top.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Certainly."

She skipped up the remaining two rungs and was over the threshold in
an instant. "A letter came for you by the second post," she said. "I
thought it might be important, so I brought it out to you." Her eyes,
her childish face were luminously candid as she handed him the letter.
There had never been a flimsier pretext.

Gombauld looked at the envelope and put it in his pocket unopened.
"Luckily," he said, "it isn't at all important. Thanks very much all the
same."