With desperation, the assistant indicated the shadowed rump of one of the boats. “A wonderful feeling in this passage,” he said, redder than ever. “Very intense,” said Gumbril. The assistant smiled at him gratefully. “That’s the word,” he said, delighted. “Intense. That’s it. Very intense.” He repeated the word several times as though to make sure of remembering it when the occasion next presented itself. He was determined to make good. “I see Mr. Lypiatt is to have a show here soon,” remarked Gumbril, who had had enough of the boats. “He is making the final arrangements with Mr. Albemarle at this very moment,” said the assistant triumphantly, with the air of one who produces, at the dramatic and critical moment, a rabbit out of the empty hat. “You don’t say so?” Gumbril was duly impressed. “Then I’ll wait till he comes out,” he said, and sat down with his back to the boats. The assistant returned to his desk and picked up the gold-belted fountain pen which his Aunt had given him when he first went into business, last Christmas. “Very intense,” he wrote in capitals on a half-sheet of notepaper. “The feeling in this passage is very intense.” He studied the paper for a few moments, then folded it up carefully and put it away in his waistcoat pocket. “Always make a note of it.” That was one of the business mottoes he had himself written out so laboriously in Indian ink and old English lettering. It hung over his bed between “The Lord is my Shepherd,” which his mother had given him, and a quotation from Dr. Frank Crane, “A smiling face sells more goods than a clever tongue.” Still, a clever tongue, the young assistant had often reflected, was a very useful thing, especially in this job. He wondered whether one could say that the composition of a picture was very intense. Mr. Albemarle was very keen on the composition, he noticed. But perhaps it was better to stick to plain ‘fine,’ which was a little commonplace, perhaps, but very safe. He would ask Mr. Albemarle about it. And then there was all that stuff about plastic values and pure plasticity. He sighed. It was all very difficult. A chap might be as willing and eager to make good as he liked; but when it came to this about atmosphere and intense passages and plasticity—well, really, what could a chap do? Make a note of it. It was the only thing. In Mr. Albemarle’s private room Casimir Lypiatt thumped the table. “Size, Mr. Albemarle,” he was saying, “size and vehemence and spiritual significance—that’s what the old fellows had, and we haven’t....” He gesticulated as he talked, his face worked and his green eyes, set in their dark, charred orbits, were full of a troubled light. The forehead was precipitous, the nose long and sharp; in the bony and almost fleshless face, the lips of the wide mouth were surprisingly full.