The discussion at dinner that evening was unexpectedly animated. We all had our theories to propound, our notes to compare and our criticisms to offer. To this I contributed my share, but reserved a conclusion to which I had been approaching all through the tale. I wished to submit it to the tests of coffee and music, to become more familiar with it before I exposed it to Bill's shrewd scrutiny and Mac's sardonic judgment. To my surprise they insisted upon the strangeness of the story. "To my mind," I said, "the story can scarcely be called strange, so far." "I wonder where his brother got to after he was expelled," said Bill. "Do you think Cecil's man is the brother?" asked Mac. "You mean interesting," I continued. "Well," said Mac, "interesting if you like. That don't make it any the less strange. Is Cecil's man----?" "The really strange part of this man's story," I declared, oracularly, "is the fact that he is telling it; mark that! And a stranger thing still is the _way_ he is telling it!" "Ex cathedra!" said Mac, sarcastically. "Explain it all over again," said Bill. I did so, but they saw no brilliance in my explanation. They were artistic, but not artistic enough to appreciate the nuance of the story-telling art. Perhaps this is nothing against them. Each to his trade. And yet--_sugar-plums_! It pleased my friend that evening to undertake the rendering of a work which, unfortunately, can only be butchered on a piano. Of all Wagner's music the _Walkueren_ Ride is least adapted to our homely instrument. Nevertheless the wild clatter, the exciting crepitation of the treble, the thunderous booming of the bass, and above all the tremendous crash with which it ends, always stimulates me to fresh mental effort. I saw plainly, as I listened, that my surmise was correct. I saw that I had no need to wait for the explanation of the phrase: "An author? Ah!" I saw, in short, that Mr. Carville, whatever he might be in the eyes of his wife, his brother, or of the world, was a potential artist. As I recapitulated to myself the various points in his tale, the careful balancing of his narrative with sententious criticism of life, the occasional fiction, to give verisimilitude to trivial events (the incident of Belvoir for example), and particularly his abrupt departure in the dusk, leaving us guessing, I felt certain that for me his tale would have a denouement of peculiar interest. Already I perceived the deliberate attempt of the man to convey the obscure and rare emotion which dominated his intellectual life. Afterwards, in the studio, I suggested that the story of Turner's sugar-plums might throw some light upon Mr. Carville's story. "How?" said Mac, who is reluctant to see profane hands touch the master-colourist's memory. I explained again. "He is taking a lot of romantic episodes, mixing them up, adding a little imaginary landscape and offering it to us," I said. "We asked for a story. We shall have it, says he."