"Oh, _that_!" Teevan drawled the words, with lifted brows; then went on to speak of Jean Francois Millet, unprosperous villager of Barbizon. He tried--unsuccessfully--to recall an instance when that painter had debased his art. Not once had he made a cheap picture for a magazine. He had never put his Muse to the streets. Millet was not pigeon-livered. Ewing leaned forward in his chair, his head between his hands. He saw that the mere sale of drawings would be a savorless success, if it bereft him of this plain-speaking but just friend. More, it would leave him small in the eyes of a woman who was now even more than Teevan. He got up doggedly, seized the drawing and began to break the tough bristol board, getting it into four pieces at length and flinging these into the grate. He was unable to resist a secret fond look at the lines he had made with such loving care. Teevan's eyes glistened now, and he held out a hand to Ewing. "Ah--you give me hope. Bravo!" "Then you do believe in me; you think I have it in me?" "Power? Yes; I've seen that. I judge men rather accurately. But I saw that you'd be tempted to rest. The more power, the greater the temptation. It's not so hard to fast in a desert--the less gifted man is less tempted. But to fast with plenty at hand for the reaching, and fair women to counsel content--to refuse apples and flagons, waiting for the ultimate jewel--that takes a _man_. It demands one--there's a certain street saying--who can 'stand the gaff.'" "And you really think I can stand it? I feel more than ever that I want to succeed." Teevan beamed on him almost affectionately. "I almost suspect----" "You shall see that I can," Ewing broke in, but what he thought was, "_She_ will see it." "It's a matter of endurance," resumed Teevan genially. "Genius is no endowment of supreme gifts. Every man of us has something latent that would set him apart. Genius is only the capacity for expressing that--that phase of yourself which differentiates you from all other selves. Of course only a few succeed. Most of us succumb to the general pressure to be alike. Yet--I almost believe in you." Ewing regarded him with glad eyes, touched by this stanch yet discerning adherence. Returning home that night Teevan, in his library, took down a Bible and searched for a passage he only half recalled. He found it at last, one wherein the God of Israel thunders, not without humor, against the foes of His chosen tribe. "I will send a faintness into their hearts in the land of their enemies; and the sound of a shaken leaf shall chase them; and they shall flee as fleeing from a sword; and they shall fall when none pursueth." He chuckled delightedly as he read it, and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.