'It looks very well, doesn't it?' said Armorel. 'I wish it was a little more complete. But it will do to show.' 'Are you quite sure it is wise?' 'Quite sure. The sooner you show everybody what you can do the better.' 'I have found a new studio,' he told her in low tones. 'I have moved in to-day. It is among the old lot of men that I used to know a little. I have gone back to them just as if I had only been gone for a day. I don't find that they have got on very much. Perhaps they spend too much time smoking pipes and cigarettes and talking. They chaff me, but with respect, because, I believe, they think I have been staying in a lunatic asylum. Respect, you know, is due to madmen and to old men.' 'I hope it is the kind of studio you want.' 'It will do. I am anxious to begin your sittings. When can you come?' 'Any day you please. To-morrow. The next day. I can begin at once.' Then came a small party of men--journalists and critics--captured by Dick Stephenson at the club, and bribed to come by the promise of an introduction to the beautiful Miss Armorel Rosevean. I do not think they expected much joy from the amateur reading of an unacted piece. It is melancholy, indeed, to consider that though the preliminary and tentative performance of the unacted play--long prayed for--has been at last established, the promised appearance of the great dramatist has not yet come off--nay, the theatrical critic weeps, swears, and growls at the mention of a matinée, and when he is requested to attend one passes it on if he can to his younger brother in the calling. And yet such great treasures were expected of the matinée! However, they agreed to come and listen on this occasion. It shall be put down to their credit as a Samaritan deed. 'Dick Stephenson,' said Armorel, with an assumption of old friendship which filled him with pride, 'I hope you are come here to-night in a really serious frame of mind--you and your friends.' 'We are always serious.' 'I mean that you are going to hear an ambitious piece of work. All I ask of you is to listen seriously, and to remember that it is really the work of a man who aims at the very highest.' 'Will he reach the very highest?' 'I do not know. But I am quite certain that there are very few artists, in any branch, who dare to aim high. Listen, and try to understand what the poet has attempted--what has been in his mind. Promise me this.' 'Certainly, I will promise you so much.'