"'DEAR MR. TENNANT,--Just a few words to express my keenest interest and delight in the work you are doing--not only the color work, but the pen-and-ink. You know that the public has made you their idol, but I thought you might care to know what the unsuccessful in your own profession think. You have already taught us so much; you are, week by week, raising the standard so high; and you are doing so much for me, that I venture to thank you and wish you still greater happiness and success. MARLITT.'" Calvert looked up. "Is that all?" "That is all. There is neither date nor address on the note. I wrote to Marlitt care of your office. Your office forwarded it, I see, but the post-office returned it to me to-day.... What has become of Marlitt?" Calvert touched the elevator-bell again. "If I knew," he said, "I'd find a place for--Marlitt." Tennant's face lighted. Calvert, scowling, avoided his eyes. "I want you to understand," he said, peevishly, "that there is no sentiment in this matter." "I understand," said Tennant. "You think you do," sneered Calvert, stepping into the elevator. The door slammed; the cage descended; the fat, pink countenance of Calvert, distorted into a furious sneer, slowly sank out of sight. II Tennant entered his studio and closed the door. In the mellow light the smile faded from his face. Perhaps he was thinking of the unsuccessful, from whose crowded ranks he had risen--comrades preordained to mediocrity, foredoomed to failure--industrious, hopeful, brave young fellows, who must live their lives to learn the most terrible of all lessons--that bravery alone wins no battles. "What luck I have had!" he said, aloud, to himself, walking over to the table and seating himself before the drawing. For an hour he studied it; touched it here and there, caressing outlines, swinging masses into vigorous composition with a touch of point or a sweeping erasure. Strength, knowledge, command were his; he knew it, and he knew the pleasure of it. Having finished the drawing, he unpinned the pencil studies, replacing each by its detail in color--charming studies executed with sober precision, yet sparkling with a gayety that no reticence and self-denial could dim. He dusted the drawing, tacked on tracing-paper, and began to transfer, whistling softly as he bent above his work. Sunlight fell across the corner of the table, glittering among glasses, saucers of porcelain, crystal bowls in which brushes dipped in brilliant colors had been rinsed. To escape the sun he rolled the table back a little way, then continued, using the ivory-pointed tracing-stylus. He worked neither rapidly nor slowly; there was a leisurely precision in his progress; pencil, brush, tracer, eraser, did their errands surely, steadily. Yet already he had the reputation of being the most rapid worker in his craft.