"Go on--what is the matter with it?" The old man rubbed his chin slowly and looked at Dalny under his bushy eyebrows. "I am afraid to speak. You have been very kind. My sister says you are always polite, and so few people are polite nowadays." "Say what you please; don't worry about me. I learn something every day." "No; I cannot. It would be cruel to tell you what I think, and Louise would not like it when she knew I had told you, and I must tell her. We tell each other everything." "Is the color wrong?" persisted Dalny. "I've got the gray-white of the sky, as you see, and the reflected light from the red plush of the sofa; but the shadows between-- Would you try a touch of emerald green here?" The old man had risen from his seat now and was backing away toward the door, his hat in his hand, his bald head and the scanty gray hairs about his temples glistening in the overhead light of the studio. "It would do you no good, my dear Mr. Dalny. Paint is never color. Color is an essence, a rhythm, a blending of tones as exquisite as the blending of sounds in the fall of a mountain-brook. Match each sound and you have its melody. Match each tone and you have light. I am working--working. Good-morning." His hand was now on the door-knob, his face aglow with an enthusiasm which seemed to mingle with his words. "Stop! Don't go; that's what I think myself," cried Dalny. "Talk to me about it." The old man dropped the knob and looked at Dalny searchingly. "You are honest with me?" "Perfectly." "Then when I triumph you shall see!--and you shall see it first. I will come for you; not yet--not yet--perhaps to-morrow, perhaps next month--but I will come!" and he bowed himself out. The faded sister was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She had seen her brother mount the first flight and the fourth, all this by peering down between the banisters. Then he had disappeared. This, being unusual, had startled her. "You must have stopped somewhere, Adolphe," she said, nervously. "Yes, Louise; the painter on the floor below called me." "Is he poor, like us?" "Poorer. We have the light beyond. He has nothing, and never will have." "What did he want?" "A criticism." "And you gave it?" "No, I could not. I had not the heart to tell him. He tries so hard. He is honest, but his work is hopeless." "Like the man on the first floor, who uses the calcium light to show his pictures by?" "No, no; Mr. Dalny is a gentleman, not a cheat. He thinks, and would learn--he told me so. But he cannot see. Ah, not to see, Louise! Did you grind the new blue, dear? Yes--and quite smooth."