He paced up and down. He was very bitter. David was still viced in the hurt of the interruption. “Well, Darby, how is the picture? It promises, my dear chap, to be the best you have done. Real improvement there.... No, no--my friend, you must not let that happen! Stick it out. I don’t care if it is beginning to bore you. Ability to stand boredom is the mark of power. Yes.... Inspiration is cheap as birds twittering. Sustainment of inspiration is rare as genius. It is genius, I tell you.” Lunn was happy. Tom praised his picture: called him his friend. He sensed that the reason for all this was devilish. It made no difference. One had to take Tom as he came. Durthal glared snakishly at David: dissatisfied that Tom’s onslaught was in abeyance. David wished to right himself. Perhaps he was sulking. Perhaps Tom was watching to see what he would do. Let him try to join in. “I wish you would let me see some of your pictures, sometime,” he said to Lunn. Lunn frowned ungraciously. “Sure,” with a stirring of his feet. “Any time.” “They’re immoral, David.” Tom turned. “They’ll shock you. They tell the truth. They accept the world as it is.” His voice had a sing-song emphasis, as if he were warning a child away from the fire. “And what a world it is!” Durthal had merely been waiting. He had not dared hope that David would so aptly accommodate himself to his hostile wishes. He fell in at once with Tom’s accent. “Better not see them, Markand. The women Lunn paints aren’t pure: the men aren’t moral.” “Think of that, Davie! Wasting his good time painting impure women!” Lunn bobbed his long head with delight. “I would paint a pure person, if I could find one.” Tom came up to David, and placed his hand under his chin. “What about this?” he said. David was stiff, waiting for the hand to go away. “How can we be sure he’s pure?” exclaimed Durthal. “That is true,” Tom stepped away a little. “We must be sure. How _can_ we be sure?... David, give us your credentials. Your proofs. For Lunn’s sake, David. Think of the unhappy fix he is in--painting nothing but wicked creatures! Think what an unselfish service you can perform.” “----if he is pure,” Durthal insisted. “Yes. If you are pure,” said Tom. All three of them smiled. All three of them fell spontaneously to this delicious game of baiting David. The ugliness of life, the folly of hope--these were their themes. They seemed to be baiting not so much David as a Dream in David: a bloom of loveliness in David thinking the world was lovely. This was the unbearable presence in the room, the maddening thing. This they joined hands and minds to blemish and befoul.... David was stark with the treachery of Tom. He could manage Tom. It was bitter hard, but he could manage Tom. These others--these living missiles of mud Tom used to fling at him, now he was weak and angry:----