"How goes it, Martin?" she asked in her soft rich voice. "How goes it?" "Haltingly, Grizel, haltingly!" his smile flickered, and died out. "We'll talk of that presently; you are the one person to whom I _can_ talk on that subject, but first of all there is something else. Prisoner at the Bar.--_Why don't you like my book_?" His voice was gentle, bantering, almost tender in tone. There was not the faintest touch of offence, but Grizel's discomfiture was as naive and undisguised as that of a child. "Martin! you said that we were not to discuss--" "Not in public; not at meals, not even before Katrine, but certainly when we are alone. There's no getting out of it, Grizel. You said nothing, it was only a tone, but as it happens I understand your tones. The book may run through a dozen editions, but for you it has failed. Why?" She stood before him, slim and straight, her face puckered in thought. "I--don't--know! Everything,--or was it nothing, Martin?" "Can I help you to find out? A few leading questions perhaps... Is it clever?" "Very clever." "Original?" "Original!" "Interesting?" "Quite interesting." "Clever, original, and interesting, and already in its third edition! What would you have more, Mistress Critic?" Grizel lifted her right hand, and lightly tapped her heart. "Clever, interesting, original, but it didn't _touch_! The craft is good, Martin; you are a skilful workman--I think you grow more and more skilful, but--" "Go on, Grizel; don't be afraid. Tell me the whole truth." Grizel faced him in silence. It was not often that so grave and thoughtful an air was seen upon her sparkling face. Her eyes gazed past his, far away into the night. "Once," she said dreamily, "there was a painter. He painted marvellous pictures, but it was the depth and tone of his colouring which made him celebrated over all the world. And of all his colours there was one in particular which appeared in all his pictures, and the secret of which his fellow-artists tried in vain to discover. It was a red, Martin, a red so rich, so warm, so _kindled_, that all who beheld it felt warmed in their souls, and his fellow-artists questioned and pondered, and tried in vain to produce the same glow upon their own canvases--and the years passed, and they grew old and weary, and still they failed. At last one day the great man died, and those who tended him for his burial were amazed to find a wound, an _open_ wound, above his heart. And then at last they understood. The red of his pictures, the glow which had warmed the world, had been painted with his own blood!" There was silence in the garden. The scent of roses hung heavy upon the air. "And I," said Martin slowly. "I write in _ink_."