“By God,” he kept repeating, “by God, by God. I feel it in me. I can face the whole lot of you; the whole damned lot. Yes, and I shall get the better of you yet. An Artist”—he called up that traditional ghost and it comforted him; he wrapped himself with a protective gesture within the ample folds of its bright mantle—“an Artist doesn’t fail under unhappiness. He gets new strength from it. The torture makes him sweat new masterpieces....” He began to talk about his books, his poems and pictures; all the great things in his head, the things he had already done. He talked about his exhibition—ah, by God, that would astonish them, that would bowl them over, this time. The blood mounted to his face; there was a flush over the high projecting cheek-bones. He could feel the warm blood behind his eyes. He laughed aloud; he was a laughing lion. He stretched out his arms; he was enormous, his arms reached out like the branches of a cedar. The Artist walked across the world and the mangy dogs ran yelping and snapping behind him. The great wind blew and blew, driving him on; it lifted him and he began to fly. Mrs. Viveash listened. It didn’t look as though he would get much further with the portrait. CHAPTER VII It was Press Day. The critics had begun to arrive; Mr. Albemarle circulated among them with a ducal amiability. The young assistant hovered vaguely about, straining to hear what the great men had to say and trying to pretend that he wasn’t eavesdropping. Lypiatt’s pictures hung on the walls, and Lypiatt’s catalogue, thick with its preface and its explanatory notes, was in all hands. “Very strong,” Mr. Albemarle kept repeating, “very strong indeed!” It was his password for the day. Little Mr. Clew, who represented the _Daily Post_, was inclined to be enthusiastic. “How well he writes!” he said to Mr. Albemarle, looking up from the catalogue. “And how well he paints! What _impasto_.” _Impasto, impasto_—the young assistant sidled off unobtrusively to the desk and made a note of it. He would look the word up in Grubb’s _Dictionary of Art and Artists_ later on. He made his way back, circuitously and as though by accident, into Mr. Clew’s neighbourhood.