r of artistic creation was upon him--all
the old desires and the old exhausting joys. His genius had been lying
idle, like a lion in a thicket, and now it had sprung forth ravening.
For months he had not handled a brush; for months his mind had
deliberately avoided the question of painting, being content with the
observation only of beauty. A week ago, if he had deliberately asked
himself whether he would ever paint again, he might have answered,
"Perhaps not." Such is man's ignorance of his own nature! And now the
lion of his genius was standing over him, its paw on his breast, and
making a great noise.

He saw that the last few months had been merely an interlude, that he
would be forced to paint--or go mad; and that nothing else mattered. He
saw also that he could only paint in one way--Priam Farll's way. If it
was discovered that Priam Farll was not buried in Westminster Abbey; if
there was a scandal, and legal unpleasantness--well, so much the worse!
But he must paint.

Not for money, mind you! Incidentally, of course, he would earn money.
But he had already quite forgotten that life has its financial aspect.

So in the sitting-room in Werter Road, he walked uneasily to and fro,
squeezing between the table and the sideboard, and then skirting the
fireplace where Alice sat with a darning apparatus upon her knees, and
her spectacles on--she wore spectacles when she had to look fixedly at
very dark objects. The room was ugly in a pleasant Putneyish way, with a
couple of engravings after B.W. Leader, R.A., a too realistic
wall-paper, hot brown furniture with ribbed legs, a carpet with the
characteristics of a retired governess who has taken to drink, and a
black cloud on the ceiling over the incandescent burners. Happily these
surroundings did not annoy him. They did not annoy him because he never
saw them. When his eyes were not resting on beautiful things, they were
not in this world of reality at all. His sole idea about
house-furnishing was an easy-chair.

"Harry," said his wife, "don't you think you'd better sit down?"

The calm voice of common sense stopped him in his circular tour. He
glanced at Alice, and she, removing her spectacles, glanced at him. The
seal on his watch-chain dangled free. He had to talk to some one, and
his wife was there--not only the most convenient but the most proper
person to talk to. A tremendous impulse seized him to tell her
everything; she would understand; she always did under