to him, by degrees, that his own personal importance
among his kind _might_ be due, in part, to his fortune. And from the
first invasion of that shocking idea matters progressed rather rapidly
with the last of the Seagraves.

He said uneasily to Duane, once: "Are you going in seriously for
painting?"

"I _am_ in," observed Duane drily.

"Professionally?"

"Sure thing. God hates an amateur."

"What are you after?" persisted Scott. "Fame?"

"Yes; I need it in my business."

"Are you contemplating a velvet coat and bow tie, and a bunch of the
elect at your heels?--ratty men, and pop-eyed young women whose coiffure
needs weeding?"

Duane laughed. "Are they any more deadly than our own sort? Why endure
either? Because you are developing into a country squire, you don't have
to marry Maud Muller." And he quoted Bret Harte:

"For there be women fair as she,
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree."

"You don't have to wallow in a profession, you know."

"But why the mischief do you want to paint professionally?" inquired
Scott, with unsatisfied curiosity. "It isn't avarice, is it?"

"I expect to hold out for what my pictures are worth, if that's what you
mean by avarice. What I'm trying to do," added Duane, striking his palm
with his fist as emphasis, "is not to die the son of a wealthy man. If I
can't be anything more, I'm not worth a damn. But I'm going to be. I can
do it, Scott; I'm lazy, I'm undecided, I've a weak streak. And yet, do
you know, with all my blemishes, all my misgivings, all my
discouragements, panics, despondent moments, I am, way down inside,
serenely and unaccountably certain that I can paint like the devil, and
that I am going to do it. That sounds cheeky, doesn't it?"

"It sounds all right to me," said Scott. And he walked away
thoughtfully, fists dug deep in his pockets.

And one still, sunny afternoon, standing alone on the dry granite crags
of the Golden Dome, he looked up and saw, a quarter of a million miles
above him, the moon's ghost swimming in azure splendour. Then he looked
down and saw the map of the earth below him, where his forests spread
out like moss, and his lakes mirrored the clouds, and a river belonging
to him traced its course across the valley in a single silver thread.
And a slight blush stung his face at the thought that, without any merit
or endeavour of his own, his money had bought it all--his money, that
had always acted as his deputy, fought for him, co