glad to have my hand on such a ‘subject.’ Then his strangelife-likeness began to affect me queerly—as I blocked thehead in I felt as if he were watching me do it. The sensationwas followed by the thought： if he WERE watching me， whatwould he say to my way of working？ My strokes began to go alittle wild—I felt nervous and uncertain.
“Once， when I looked up， I seemed to see a smile behind hisclose grayish beard—as if he had the secret， and were amusinghimself by holding it back from me. That exasperated me stillmore. The secret？ Why， I had a secret worth twenty of his！ Idashed at the canvas furiously， and tried some of my bravuratricks. But they failed me， they crumbled. I saw that he wasn’twatching the showy bits—I couldn’t distract his attention； hejust kept his eyes on the hard passages between. Those werethe ones I had always shirked， or covered up with some lyingpaint. And how he saw through my lies！
“I looked up again， and caught sight of that sketch of thedonkey hanging on the wall near his bed. His wife told meafterward it was the last thing he had done—just a note takenwith a shaking hand， when he was down in Devonshirerecovering from a previous heart attack. Just a note！ But ittells his whole history. There are years of patient scornfulpersistence in every line. A man who had swum with thecurrent could never have learned that mighty up-streamstroke....
“I turned back to my work， and went on groping andmuddling； then I looked at the donkey again. I saw that， whenStroud laid in the first stroke， he knew just what the end wouldbe. He had possessed his subject， absorbed it， recreated it.
When had I done that with any of my things？ They hadn’t beenborn of me—I had just adopted them....
“Hang it， Rickham， with that face watching me I couldn’tdo another stroke. The plain truth was， I didn’t know where toput it—I HAD NEVER KNOWN. Only， with my sitters andmy public， a showy splash of colour covered up the fact—Ijust threw paint into their faces.... Well， paint was the onemedium those dead eyes could see through—see straight tothe tottering foundations underneath. Don’t you know how， intalking a foreign language， even fluently， one says half the timenot what one wants to but what one can？ Well—that was theway I painted； and as he lay there and watched me， the thingthey called my ‘technique’ collapsed like a house of cards. Hedidn’t sneer， you understand， poor Stroud—he just lay therequietly watching， and on his lips， through the gray beard， Iseemed to hear the question： ‘Are you sure you know whereyou’re coming out？’
“If I could have painted that face， with that question on it， Ishould have done a great thing. The next greatest thing was tosee that I couldn’t—and that grace was given me. But， oh， atthat minute， Rickham， was there anything on earth I wouldn’thave given to have Stroud alive before me， and to hear himsay： ‘It’s not too late—I’ll show you how’？
“It WAS too late—it would have been， even if he’d beenalive. I packed up my traps， and went down and told Mrs.
Stroud. Of course I didn’t tell her THAT—it would have beenGreek to her. I simply said I couldn’t paint him， that I was toomoved. She rather liked the idea—she’s so romantic！ It wasthat that made her give me the donkey. But she was terriblyupset at not getting the portrait—she did so want him ‘done’
by some one showy！ At first I was afraid she wouldn’t let meoff—and at my wits’ end I suggested Grindle. Yes， it was Iwho started Grindle： I told Mrs. Stroud he was the ‘coming’
man， and she told somebody else， and so it got to be true....
And he painted Stroud without wincing； and she hung thepicture among her husband’s things....”
He flung himself down in the arm-chair near mine， laid backhis head， and clasping his arms beneath it， looked up at thepicture above the chimney-piece.
“I like to fancy that Stroud himself would have given it tome， if he’d been able to say what he thought that day.”
And， in answer to a question I put half-mechanically—“Begin again？” he flashed out. “When the one thing that bringsme anywhere near him is that I knew enough to leave off？”
He stood up and laid his hand on my shoulder with alaugh. “Only the irony of it is that I AM still painting—sinceGrindle’s doing it for me！ The Strouds stand alone， and happenonce—but there’s no exterminating our kind of art.”