'_If_ you said them?' he cried, coming from-behind my chair. 'But do you say them?' 'Stand off!' I said, laughing. A man can rarely endure praise and blame with equal fortitude. My young friend, you will some day paint great pictures. In four or five hundred years' time great painters will look at this and will reverently point out in it the faults of early manner; but they will read the soul in it--as I do now. You are a creature of a hundred years--a painter, an artist. This is not paint, but a face--a face of flesh and blood, with soul behind. And this is not paint, but a faded brown silk. And this is not paint, but solid mahogany. You have done more than paint a picture. You have made concrete an inspiration. Your technique is all masterly, but it does not overpower. It gives only fitting body to a beautiful idea--its soul!' He blushed and trembled whilst I spoke. Englishmen do not often talk poetry--off the stage. He answered-- 'No, really, Calvotti, old man, that's rot, you know. But do you like it?' I spoke gravely then. 'My dear young friend, so surely as that is your work, so surely will you be a great artist if you choose.' 'You bet I choose,' this young genius answered. He would sooner have died, I suppose, than have put his emotions at that moment into words. This is another characteristic of you English. You will sooner look like fools than have it appear that you feel. You wear the rags of cynicism over the pure gold of nature. This is a foolish pride, but it is useless to crusade against national characteristics. I was a little chilled, and I said in a business tone-- 'Well, we will see about selling this at once.' 'No,' he answered. 'I will not sell this.' 'No?' I asked. 'No,' he said again; 'not this picture,' And for one minute he regarded it, and then shook his head and once more said 'No.' 'Well,' I answered, not trying to persuade him, 'I will ask Mr. Gregory to look at it, and he will give you a commission for a work, and then you will be fairly afloat.' 'Oh, thank you, Calvotti. What a good fellow you are!' I was unsettled for work. My praise was hysterical and hyperbolical. I could have wept whilst I uttered it. For though I had given up all hope, and though I was glad to find that in art he was worthy as in manhood he was worthy, yet it was still hard to endorse a rival's triumph and to cut out all envy and stifle all pain. And now I had to go home and to live beneath the same roof with Cecilia, and to see her sometimes, and to talk and look like a friend. If you resist the Devil, will he always fly from you? Is it not sometimes safer to fly from him? And is there anywhere a baser fiend than that which prompted me to throw myself upon my knees before her and tell her everything, and so barter honour for an impulse? Brave or not, I know that I was wise when that afternoon I packed up everything and went to say good-bye.