Abella threw up her hands. “How very strange, and how very unhappy you all must be!” she cried. The dear child! So interesting to converse with one who cannot understand ... beautiful, tedious, the two always go together; yet I had been detained a week. Undaunted by Abella’s frankness, I offered my sketches to the artist fisherman for examination. He smiled indulgently, looked them over, and desired them all, offering in return any one from his wonderful collection. I agreed, and followed him to the top of his mound-shaped home, entering a room strong with the odor of oil and paint. It was the workshop of an artist; a studio is quite another place. Near the window upon an easel was a half finished painting of sky, storm clouds, with a background of thunderous, rolling, flame-tinged vapor—the sullen red of a storm sun that no artist has as yet mastered. The picture was powerfully impressive. The fisherman was a master, his aim—individuality. But I could not admire his ideal of feminine beauty. He was the creator of a Type, elongated, sombre, gaunt, thick-lipped; yet in these impossible faces was that which could not be found in one woman’s face in all Centauri—soul. The artist had a cunning skill, he was able to depict that which he lacked. I looked in vain for a trace of the delicate loveliness of his wife, but in all the work scattered about the walls there was not one sketch of Abella. He asked me if I had noticed his work in the Salon. I told him I had not yet visited the Salon. “My work is conspicuously hung,” he informed me. “You cannot overlook any of it. I am the only painter in Centauri who refrains from defacing canvas with initials. I come from a long line of artists; necessity made us fishermen; yet each in his time was the foremost painter of the age. I am that to-day; success is the heritage. Those divinely gifted with genius strive for fame, glory alone; to barter that speck of gold which the sun’s rays burned in us is sacrilegious. Sol! blind my eyes forever to your golden brilliancy. I would as soon think of selling my wife Abella.” “And when you have reached fame, glory—what?” I asked. “You do not quite understand,” he quickly replied, “it is not momentary fame we seek; immortal fame is the goal we all strive for. But all who are famous cannot be immortal, yet each believe immortality the just reward; even Alpha, the Superb, yearns for immortal fame, and is wasting her gorgeous youth in the effort.” He turned to a huge stone chest or vault set in the wall; unbolting the door he invited me to enter. There was sufficient light from the outer room, and I saw shelves reaching from floor to ceiling ladened with parchment canvases carefully covered with oil silk.