But it left him to face the problems of the day with a new sense of helplessness--the first confused sensation that hers was the stronger nature, the dominant personality--although he did not definitely understand this. Because, how could he understand it of a young girl so soft, so yielding, so sweet, so shy and silent in the imminence of passion when her consenting lips trembled and grew fragrant in half-awakened response to his. How could he believe it--conscious of what he had made of himself through sheer will and persistent? How could he credit it--remembering what he already stood for in the world, where he stood, how he had arrived by the rigid road of self-denial; how he had mounted, steadily, undismayed, unperturbed, undeterred by the clamour of envy, of hostility, unseduced by the honey of flattery? Upright, calm, self-confident, he had forged on straight ahead, following nobody--battled steadily along the upward path until--out of the void, suddenly he had come up against a blank wall. That wall which had halted, perplexed, troubled, dismayed, terrified him because he was beginning to believe it to be the boundary which marked his own limitations, suddenly had become a transparent barrier through which he could see. And what he saw on the other side was an endless vista leading into infinity. But the path was guarded; Love stood sentinel there. And that was what he saw ahead of him now, and he knew that he might pass on if Love willed it--and that he would never care to pass on alone. But that he _could_ not go forward, ignoring Love, neither occurred to him nor would he have believed it if it had. Yet, at times, an indefinable unease possessed him as though some occult struggle was impending for which he was unprepared. That struggle had already begun, but he did not know it. On the contrary all his latent strength and brilliancy had revived, exquisitely virile; and the new canvas on which he began now to work blossomed swiftly into magnificent florescence. A superb riot of colour bewitched the entire composition; never had his brushes swept with such sun-tipped fluency, never had the fresh splendour of his hues and tones approached so closely to convincing himself in the hours of fatigue and coldly sober reaction from the auto-intoxication of his own facility. That auto-intoxication had always left his mind and his eye steady and watchful, although drugged--like the calm judgment of the intoxicated opportunist at the steering wheel of a racing motor. And a race once run and ended, a deliberate consideration of results usually justified the pleasure of the pace. Yet that mysterious something which some said he lacked, had not yet appeared. That _something_, according to many, was an elusive quality born of a sympathy for human suffering--an indefinable and delicate bond between the artist and his world--between a master who has suffered, and all humanity who understands.