“The blind man said it must be like the sound of a trumpet,” said Karl; “and the blind man at that moment saw. Brandy also for taste is red. So is ammonia,--a pistol to your nostrils.” Martin dabbed his cigarette on to his dessert plate. “Yes, yes,” he cried, “and C major is red. And F sharp is blue,--electric blue, like the grotto at Capri----“ He stopped suddenly. “Am I talking nonsense?” he asked. “If so, it is your fault. You encourage me. You meant to. And what do you mean me to get from it?” Karl turned directly towards him. “I mean you to think,” he said. “To frame your life wholly for beauty in whatever form you see it. It is everywhere, be assured of that; and if your eye sees it, store it up like a honey-bee, and bring it home. If your mouth feels it, bring it home. If you smell the autumn morning, bring that home, too. It all makes music.” He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward towards Martin. “All is food for you,” he said. “It is only in that way, by harvesting every grain of corn you see, that you can be great. A lot of harvesting is done unconsciously. Supplement that by conscious harvesting. You may learn perfectly all the harmony and counterpoint that can be learned, you may learn to play things impossible, but all that is no good by itself. You can already play,--I am not flattering you, but the reverse,--if you practise a little, all the printed music ever written, as far as notes go. That is no good either. But--if I had not seen this when first I heard you play, I should never have wasted ten minutes of my time on you--you can do more than that. You can, if you are very alert, quite untiring, very critical, and always ready to catch beauty in whatever form it may present itself, you can do more than this. At least I believe so.” He got up from his seat and leaned his hands on the boy’s shoulders as he sat by the table. “Ah, Martin, don’t disappoint me,” he said, “or, being old, I shall die of it. Drink from every spring but one, and drink deep.” Martin turned in his chair and faced him. “Do I know what spring you mean?” he asked. “Love?” Karl looked at him with a sort of wonder. “No, I did not mean that,” he said. He drew a long breath. “My God, if that had been granted to me,” he said, “I too might have been great. But I never fell in love. Oh, I am successful; I know I understand; I am the only person, perhaps, who does know what is missing in me. It is that. But missing that, I never, no, not once, parodied what I did not know. Parody, parody!” he repeated. Martin looked at him with that direct, lucid gaze Karl knew so well, level beneath the straight line of his eyebrows. His smooth, brown cheeks were a little flushed with some emotion he could not have put a name to. Slight injury was there, that Karl could possibly have supposed him bestial, the rest was clean modesty. “I am not beastly,” he said, “if you mean that.” “I did mean that,” he said. “And I beg your pardon.” Martin stood up.