For his subject he chose Ruth in the cornfield, but very soon tired of painting ears of corn, so he left it looking like a square yellow block, and painted it up until it resembled a slice of Dutch cheese. Only when he came to Ruth's face and tried to make it express all the love with which his heart was overflowing did he paint with the old fastidious care, but even that could not keep him for long, and he returned to his corn, the shape of which had begun to fascinate him, and he wanted somehow to get it into relation with the hill on which it was set. But he could do nothing with it, and had to go back to Ruth and love. The effect was certainly startling and novel, and Logan was enthusiastic. "That's it," he said. "The nearest approach to modern art is the poster, which is not art, of course, because it is not designed by artists. But it does convey something to the modern mind, it does jog it out of its routine and habitual rut. Now, your picture wouldn't do for a poster. It is too good, but it has the same kind of effect. Stop! Look! Listen! Wake up, and see that there are beautiful women in the world and blue skies, and love radiant over all! This woman has nothing to do with what you felt for your wife when you proposed to her, or with what the parson said when the baby died: she is the woman the dream of whom lives always in your heart, although you have long forgotten it. She is the beauty you have passed by for the sake of peace and quiet and a balance at your bank." "Do you think it is a good picture?" asked Mendel. "I think it is a good beginning. Two or three more like that and there will be a sensation. There will have to be policemen to regulate the crowd." Mendel caught his mood of driving excitement and really was convinced that he had broken through to a style of his own, and to the beginning of something that might be called modern art. He was a little dashed when, after Logan had gone, he fetched his mother over to see it, and all she could find to say was:-- "You used not to paint like that." "No, of course not," he said impatiently. "The old way was limited, too limited. It was all very well for painting the life down here, just what I saw in front of me. This picture is for an exhibition, all by myself with one other man." "Logan?" asked Golda dubiously. "Yes. It is a great honour to give a private exhibition like that at my age. It is most unusual. This is the beginning of a new style. I'm beginning a new life." "You are not going away?" said Golda in a sudden panic that he was to be snatched away from her. "I should never go away until you gave your permission," he said. "I am not so very different from Harry that I want to go away and leave my people." "I never know what will come of that painting of yours." "Success!" he said jestingly. "And fame and money, and beautiful ladies in furs and diamonds, and carriages and motor-cars, and fine clothes and rings on everybody's fingers."