'It is very good, Roland,' Alec repeated. 'If I am not so good a painter myself, I am not envious. I can appreciate and acknowledge good work.' Under the circumstances, rather an extraordinary speech. But Roland's gloomy face softened a little. Even at such a moment the artist feels the power of praise. The other, standing before the picture, watched the softening of the face. 'Good work?' he repeated by way of question. 'Man! it is splendid work! I can feel the breath of the salt breeze: I can see the white spray flying over the rock: the girl stands out real and living. It is a splendid piece of work, Roland.' 'I think it is better than the last,' the unlucky painter replied huskily. 'I should rather think it is. I expect to get a great name for this picture'--the painter winced--'and you--you--the painter, will get a much more solid thing--you will get a big cheque. I've sold it already. No dealers this time. It has been bought by a rich American. Three hundred is the figure I can offer you. And here's your cheque.' He took it, ready drawn and signed, from his pocket-book. Roland Lee received it, but he let it drop from his fingers: the paper fluttered to the floor. He gazed upon the picture in silence. 'Well? What are you thinking of?' 'I was thinking of the day when I made the sketch for that picture. I remember what the girl said to me.' 'What the devil does it matter what the girl said? All we care about is the picture.' 'I remember her very words. You who have bought the picture can see the girl; but I, who painted it, can hear her voice.' 'You are not going off into heroics again?' 'No, no. Don't be afraid. I am not going to tell you what she said. Only I told her, being pleased with what she told me, that she was a prophetess. Nobody ought ever to prophesy good things about a man, for they never come to pass. Let them prophesy disappointment and ruin and shame, and then they always come true. My God! what a prophecy was hers! And what has come of it? I have sold my genius, which is my soul. I have traded it away. It is the sin unforgiven in this world and in the next.' 'When you give over tragedy and blank verse----' 'Oh! I have done.' 'I should like to ask you a question.' 'Ask it.' 'The foreground--the sea-weeds lying over the boulders. Does the light fall quite naturally? I hardly understand--look here. If the sunlight----' '_You_ to pretend to be a painter!' Roland snorted impatiently. '_You_ to talk about lights and shadows! Man alive! I wonder you haven't been found out ages ago! The light falls this way--this way--see!'--he turned the painting about to show how it fell. 'Oh! I understand. Yes, yes; I see now.' Alec seemed not to resent this language of contempt. 'Is there anything else you want to know before I go? Perhaps you wish the sea painted black?' 'Cornish coast again, I suppose?' 'Somewhere that way. What does it matter where you put it? Call it a view on Primrose Hill.'