rs. The studio door was
half-open. As they approached the threshold they heard Fenwick
speaking.

'I say, hand me that rag--and look sharp and bring me some more
oil--quick! And where the devil is that sketch? Well, get the oil--and
then look for it--under that pile over there--No!--hi!--stand still
a moment--just where you are--I want to see the tone of your head
against this background! Hang it!--the light's going!'

The visitors paused--to see Fenwick standing between them and a large
canvas covered with the first 'laying-in' of an important subject. The
model, a thin, dark-faced fellow, was standing meekly on the spot to
which Fenwick had motioned him, while the artist, palette on thumb,
stood absorbed and frowning, his keen eye travelling from the man's
head to the canvas behind it.

Lord Findon smiled. He was a clever amateur, and relished the details
of the business.

'Smells good!' he said, in Eugenie's ear, sniffing the scents of the
studio. 'Looks like a fine subject too. And just now he's king of it.
The torments are all ahead. Hullo, Fenwick!--may we come in?'

Fenwick turned sharply and saw them in the doorway. He came to meet
them with mingled pleasure and embarrassment.

'Come in, please! Hope you don't mind this get-up.' He pointed to his
shirt-sleeves.

'It's we who apologise!' smiled Eugenie. 'You are in a great moment!'

She glanced at the canvas, filled with a rhythmical group of dim
figures, already beautiful, though they had caught the artist and his
work in the very act of true creation--when after weeks or months
of brooding, of hard work, of searching study of this or that, of
inspiration tested and verified, of mechanical drudgery, of patient
construction, _birth_ begins--the birth of values, relations,
distances, the _drawing of colour_.

Fenwick shrugged his shoulders. His eyes sparkled in a strained
and haggard face, with such an ardour that Eugenie had the strange
impression of some headlong force, checked in mid-career, and filling
the quiet studio with the thrill of its sudden reining-up; and Lord
Findon's announcement was checked on his lips.

'Why, it is my subject!' she cried, looking again at the picture.

'Well, of course!' said Fenwick, flushing.

It was only a few weeks before that she had read him, from a privately
printed volume, a poem, of which the new, strange music was then
freshly in men's ears--suggesting that he should take it as a theme.
The poem is called