His thoughts were bitter as he walked through the streets that day. Why had Nature so utterly denied him that divine "something" that no industry can give, no study can acquire? "I can but despise my own men and women," he thought. "I am no creator! I make forms in paint, but I cannot give them the breath of life. I make them beautiful--strictly speaking--yet there is no beauty in them. I am a craftsman, a mechanic--not an artist." But he had a stout heart and a dogged obstinacy that refused to yield. Surely this fervid ambition to abandon himself to imaginative work must be the outcome of some fire of inspiration, however small and smouldering. Let him only find that woman with the gleaming pale face and the sunlike hair, and he surely could and would produce his masterpiece. He looked around as he walked. Even if he discovered his personified dream out of the ranks of professional models, he meant to leave no stone unturned to persuade her to sit for his great picture. He shivered somewhat as the chill winter blasts rushed by. Money was far from plentiful in Jack's pockets. In true artistic style he inhabited a garret in Bohemia, and it was only by the strictest economy that he was enabled to exist on the work he sold, aided by the small sum of money he had inherited from his mother. Yet the studio belonging to the top suite in the handsome block of flats that he entered, and in which he was obviously quite at home, bore every sign of ample wealth. A spacious and lofty apartment, it was obviously no makeshift, but had been destined by its architect to behold artistic labours. This was clearly shown by its top-lights, and its one very huge window, unusually wide and deep. From the front entrance of the flat of which it formed part, this studio was reached by crossing a wide hall, on the left side of which opened the living-rooms of the suite. But the entire right-hand half of the flat, looking north, was devoted to the requirements of Art. At the farther end of the studio itself a door opened on to a short passage on each side of which was a quite small room. That on the right was the model's dressing-room; it communicated also directly with the studio, but the other little room had its only opening into the short corridor. It was destined for the storing of plaster and other materials used in modelling, and possessed the useful addition of a tiny sink with hot and cold water. A door at the farther end of the dividing passage gave access to a flight of stairs which ultimately led out to Langthorne Place, where was the back entrance of the block of flats. The studio itself was verily a fascinating spot, with its exquisite replicas of classical statues; its curious swords and armour; its plaques; its Damascus shawls and Eastern draperies; divans and lavishly carved chairs and tables. Vases of curious build, harmonious outline, or rich colour stood around, several--despite the wintry season--filled with pink and crimson roses.