The Corporal and his lady on the high-backed settee offered a silent prayer that the young man had as much wisdom and taste as the owner of such a clear, confident voice ought to have. "As the leaves of the tree are the lives of men." The Corporal breathed more freely; the young man's voice had not belied him. "Homer's words." He reeled off pat a large-sounding foreign language. "I want you to catch the ghost of the sun glancing through these wind-torn branches. You'll get the light if you stand just here. Wonderful composition ... wonderful vision ... wonderful harmony ... wonderful everything. The big artists feel with their eyes." It was charming to hear the voice in its enthusiasm. "They look behind the curtain of appearances as you might say. The life of man is but the shadow of a shadow ... you remember that bit of Lucretius I read you last night? Look at the figure in the foreground gathering the leaves. Modern critics say symbolism is not art, but it depends on how it's done, doesn't it? The eyes of the mind ... imagination ... and that's the only key we have to the Riddle of the Sphinx." He ran on and on, laughing like a child. "Look at his color. And how spacious!--imagination there!--the harmony, the drawing! A marvelous draughtsman. If he'd lived he'd have been a second Torrington, although you hear people say that Torrington couldn't draw." He laughed like a schoolboy and then his voice fell. "I like to think that Jim Stanning was one of us, that he was born among us, and it's good to think that our old one-horse Art Committee has had the luck to buy his magnum opus without knowing it. They paid twice as much for Corfield Weir in the other room, which is not in the same class. However ... posterity...." Prattling on and on the young man came round the corner of the settee, followed by the old lady. And then his flow of words failed suddenly as he caught a glimpse of William and Melia, whose presence he had been far from suspecting. His little start of guilt betrayed a feeling that he had made rather an ass of himself, for he said half shamefacedly, "Come on, my dear, let's go and look at the Weir. We'll come back here later." The Corporal and his lady could only catch a glimpse of him as he led his mother abruptly into the next room; but Melia saw he was an officer with two pips on his sleeve and that his tunic was adorned with a tiny strip of white and purple ribbon with a star on it. In answer to her questions the Corporal was able to inform her that the young man was a Captain in the B.B. and that his decorations was the M.C. with Bar. "And he looks so young!" said Melia. "A very good soldier," said the Corporal with a professional air. "Who is he, Bill? I seem to remember his mother." "It's young Nixey, the architect." Of course! But his uniform had altered him. He looked so handsome. And that was Emma Nixey--Emma Price that was. How proud she must be to have a boy like that!