Sally had never met Stanning the painter. "One of the whitest men that ever lived. Lies out there. A great chap, Jim Stanning. Another Torrington almost for a certainty ... although he doubted himself, whether he was big enough to fight his own success. See what he meant?" It thrilled him a little when he realized that she did. For an instant the extinguished eyes seemed to well with light. "That picture of his, 'As the Leaves of the Tree,' carries technique to a point that makes one dizzy. Some say technique doesn't matter, but there's nothing permanent without it." He sighed heavily. "Of course the undaunted soul of man has to shine through it. And that's just what Jim Stanning was--an undaunted soul. Dead at thirty-nine. We shan't realize ... if we ever realize ... however...." Overcome by his thoughts for a moment, he could not go on. Sally sat breathing hard. "If I were a rich man, as rich as Ford or Carnegie, I'd buy that picture of old Jim's and send it to them in Berlin. Some day it might help them to ask themselves just what it was that brought the man who painted it, a man who simply lived for beauty, to die like a dog, half mad, in a poisoned muckyard in Flanders." Suddenly he stopped and the light seemed to die in his face. Then he turned round on the piano stool and broke delicately into the opening bars of the haunted, wild and terrible Fifth Symphony. For the moment he had forgotten that Sally was there. She got up from her chair and came to him as a child to a wounded and suffering animal. Putting an arm round his clean but frayed collar she kissed his forehead. "I shall come and see you again ... if I may." His sightless flesh seemed to contract as he lifted his thin hands from the keyboard. "Don't!" he gasped. "Better not ... better not ... for both of us." She knew he was right and something in her voice told him so. "... If I may," she repeated weakly. He didn't answer. She pressed her lips again upon his forehead, then took up her coat and went hastily from the room. The old woman was in the act of turning the latchkey in the front door. She had got her coupons and was returning in triumph with a full basket. "Not going, Miss Sally, are you? I should like you to have seen his decorations--D.S.O. with two Bars and such a wonderful letter from the General." "I'm afraid I simply must go, Mrs. Nixey. Off to France to-morrow, and I've got to pack." "Yes, my dear, I suppose so. Very good of you to come and see him." "Don't say that."