He ceased working, and slightly nodded to Evarne. She stood up, stretched her arms over her head, gave a couple of tiny kicks to take the stiffness from one of her knees, then slipped behind the screen that formed a temporary dressing-room. She reappeared, clad in a loose crimson wrapper, and sat down by the fire. The young men joined her. "You heard what we were talking about, of course, Miss Stornway?" questioned Towning. "Is there a 'Belle Dame' among your friends?" But Evarne was unable to render assistance. She knew of two models with red-gold hair, but the accompanying round, rosy faces and _retroussé_ noses of both were in no way mystic and interesting. All she could do was to promise to remember the requirement, and to send any likely damsel along for inspection. "Thank you. But you're about the fiftieth person who's on the lookout," returned Jack Hardy ruefully. When he finally took his departure, he walked slowly back to Kensington, a cloud of discontent upon his brow. His mind was full of his picture, the great work he was longing to commence, yet--morbidly conscious of his own limitations--he was resolutely determined not to start without having found a suitable model for the central figure. "I _must_ get on! I _must_ make headway! All my youth is passing!" He almost snarled these words aloud. Earnest, enthusiastic, patiently hard-working, Jack Hardy was devoid of one spark of divine inspiration, and knew it but too well for his peace of mind. He saw his own handiwork without gloss or glamour; viewed it as it was in stern reality, good in composition, in technique, but commonplace--oh! Phoebus Apollo and all ye Muses--how sadly commonplace! Not a man or woman, trained and practised as he was, but could have done equally well. In the ripest fruit of his hand and brain there was absolutely nothing individual; scarce a trace of originality; no magnetism, no grip. Never had Jack Hardy completed a work, and looking upon it said within himself: "None but I could have produced just this result. Only the combination of heart and brain and soul and knowledge that makes Me could have evolved this picture. I myself am in it." As a student, a great future had been prophesied for him, and in those days he had believed in himself. But time had glided by, his thirtieth year was past, his powers had matured without enlarging their scope, and with bitter reluctance he commenced to realise that he now saw the full extent to which his capacity would ever attain. He might become more certain, more facile, but nothing else. No longer could he still look forward and upward, confident in what would be revealed when the summit of the hill he so laboriously climbed was reached. He was there, and lo! it was but the crowded tableland of mediocrity!