After he had plastered a few more tubes of vermilion over his canvas he quieted down, and presently gave me an oblique glance over his shoulder. "Well," he said, "what else are you intending to investigate?" "Those little animals that live in the crater fires," I said bluntly. "Yes," he nodded, indifferently, "there are creatures which live somewhere in the fires of that crater." "Do you realize what an astounding statement you are making?" I asked. "It doesn't astound _me_. What do I care whether it astounds you or anybody else? Nothing interests me except Art." "But--" "I tell you nothing interests me except Art!" he yelled. "Don't dispute it! Don't answer me! Don't irritate me! I don't care whether anything lives in the fire or not! Let it live there!" "But have you actually seen live creatures in the flames?" "Plenty! _Plenty!_ What of it? What about it? Let 'em live there, for all I care. I've painted pictures of 'em, too. That's all that interests me." "What do they look like, Mr. Blythe?" "Look like? _I_ don't know! They look like weasels or rats or bats or cats or--stop asking me questions! It irritates me! It depresses me! Don't ask any more! Why don't you go in to lunch? And--tell my daughter to bring me a bowl of salad out here. _I've_ no time to stuff myself. Some people have. _I_ haven't. You'd better go in to lunch.... And tell my daughter to bring me seven tubes of Chinese vermilion with my salad!" "You don't mean to mix--" I began, then checked myself before his fury. "I'd rather eat vermilion paint on my salad than sit here talking to _you_!" he shouted. I cast a pitying glance at this impossible man, and went into the house. After all, he was _her_ father. I _had_ to endure him. * * * * * After Miss Blythe had carried to her father a large bucket of lettuce leaves, she returned to the veranda of the bungalow. [Illustration: "Miss Blythe had carried to her father a large bucket of lettuce leaves."] A delightful luncheon awaited us; I seated her, then took the chair opposite. A delicious omelette, fresh biscuit, salad, and strawberry preserves, and a tall tumbler of iced tea imbued me with a sort of mild exhilaration. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Blythe down in the garden, munching his lettuce leaves like an ill-tempered rabbit, and daubing away at his picture while he munched. "Your father," said I politely, "is something of a genius." "I am so glad you think so," she said gratefully. "But don't tell him so. He has been surfeited with praise in Boston. That is why we came out here." "Art," said I, "is like science, or tobacco, or tooth-wash. Every man to his own brand. Personally, I don't care for his kind. But who can say which is the best kind of anything? Only the consumer. Your father is his own consumer. He is the best judge of what he likes. And that is the only true test of art, or anything else."