Already through a somewhat sensational motor collision in the gay October Berkshires we had acquired the tentative Bride and Groom, Paul Brenswick and Victoria Meredith, as ardent and unreasonable a pair of young lovers as ever rose unscathed from a shivered racing car to face, instead of annihilation, a mere casual separation of months until such May-time as Paul himself, returning from Heaven knows what errand in China, should mate with her and meet with us. And to New York City, of course, one would turn instinctively for the Someone With a Future. At a single round of studio parties in the brief Thanksgiving Holiday we found Claude Kennilworth. Not a moment's dissension occurred between us concerning his absolute fitness for the part. He was beautiful to look at, and not too young, twenty-five perhaps, the approximate age of our tentative Bride and Groom. And he made things with his hands in dough, clay, plaster, anything he could reach very insolently, all the time you were talking to him, modeling the thing he was thinking about, instead! "Oh, just wait till you see him in bronze?" thrilled all the young Satellites around him. "Till you see me in bronze!" thrilled young Kennilworth himself. Never in all my life have I beheld anyone as beautiful as Claude Kennilworth--with a bit of brag in him! That head sharply uplifted, the pony-like forelock swished like smoke across his flaming eyes, the sudden wild pulse of his throat. Heavens! What a boy! "You artist-fellows are forever reproducing solids with liquids," remarked my Husband quite casually. "All the effects I mean! All the illusion! Crag or cathedral out of a dime-sized mud-puddle in your water-color box! Flesh you could kiss from a splash of turpentine! But can you reproduce liquids with solids? Could you put the ocean into bronze, I mean?" "The ocean?" screamed the Satellites. "No mere skinny bas-relief," mused my Husband, "of the front of a wave hitched to the front of a wharf or the front of a beach but waves corporeally complete and all alone--shoreless--skyless--like the model of a village an ocean rolling all alone as it were in the bulk of its three dimensions?" "In--bronze?" questions young Kennilworth. "_Bronze_?" His voice was very faintly raspish. "Oh, it wasn't a blue ocean especially that I was thinking about," confided my Husband, genially, through the mist of his cigarette. "Any chance pick-up acquaintance has seen the ocean when it's blue. But my wife and I, you understand, we live with the ocean! Call it by its first name,--'Oh Ocean!'--and all that sort of thing!" he smiled out abruptly above the sudden sharp spurt of a freshly-struck match. "The--the ocean I was thinking of," he resumed with an almost exaggerated monotone, "was a brown ocean--brown as boiled sea-weeds--mad as mud under a leaden sky--seething--souring--perfectly lusterless--every brown billow-top pinched-up as though by some malevolent hand into a vivid verdigris bruise----"