"No, because if I once opened the question of whether I should live on the bare necessities of life, or allow myself, so to speak, a little dripping on my bread, the rest of my life would be spent in settling infinitesimal points which I really don't think much matter. I could no doubt sell my silver and realize a few hundred pounds, and give that away. But I don't think it matters much." "All the same, it is inconsistent." "In details that does not seem to me to matter either," said Merivale. "For instance, I don't eat meat partly because I think that it is better not to take life if you can avoid it. But when a midge settles on my hand and bites me, if possible I kill it." "Well, anyhow your inconsistencies make up a very charming whole," said the other, looking round. "It is all charming." "I'm glad, and you think you can pass a day or two here without missing the--the complications you live among? I wish Philip could have come down, too; but he is buried in work, it appears, and we know how his leisure is occupied just now." Evelyn moved suddenly in his chair. "Ah, do you know, I am rather glad Philip isn't here," he said. "I don't think----" and he broke off again. "And as soon as I've finished this portrait, I'm going to do his," he added. He was silent a moment, feeling somehow that he never would do Philip's portrait. He would not be able to see him, he would not be able to paint him; something, no shadow, but something so bright would stand between him and the canvas that he would be unable to see beyond or through it. But Merivale did not seem to notice the check. His eyes were looking out over the glowing garden, where all colours were turned to flame in the almost level rays of the sun as it drew near to its setting. The wall behind the deep garden bed glowed as if the bricks themselves were luminous, light seemed to exude from the grass, the flowers were bells and cups of fire. "Ah, this is the best moment of all the day," he said, "when sunset comes like this. The whole of the sunshine of the hours seem distilled into it, it is the very essence of light." He rose from his chair, and went to the edge of the verandah, stretching his arms wide and breathing deeply of the warm, fragrant air. Then he turned again to his companion. "That, too, I hope is what death will be like," he said. "All the sunlight of life will be concentrated into that moment, until one's mere body can hold no more of the glow that impregnates it, and is shattered. Look at those clusters of rambler; a little more and they must burst with the colour." Evelyn got up too.