'I have seen much of artists; known them intimately, and studied their lives. One and all, they date their success from some passionate experience. From a cold and conventional existence can come nothing but cold and conventional art. You left England, broke away from the common routine, from the artificial and the respectable. That was an indispensable first step, and I have told you how I applauded it. But you cannot stop at this. I begin to fear for you. There is a convention of unconventionality: poor quarters, hard life, stinted pleasures--all that kind of thing. I fear its effect upon you.' 'What choice have I?' exclaimed Alma, moved to familiar frankness. 'If I _am_ poor, I must live poorly.' He smiled graciously upon her, and raised his hand almost as though he would touch her with reassuring kindness; but it was only to stroke his trimmed beard. 'Oh, you have a choice, believe me,' came his airy answer. 'There's no harm in poverty that doesn't last too long. You may have profited by it; it is an experience. But now--Don't let us walk so far as to tire you. Yes, we will turn. Variety of life, travel, all sorts of joys and satisfactions--these are the things you need.' 'And if they are not within my reach?' she asked, without looking at him. 'By-the-bye'--he disregarded her question--'your friend, Mrs. Carnaby, has taken a long flight.' 'Yes.' The monosyllable was dropped. Alma walked with her eyes on the ground, trailing her sunshade. 'I didn't think she had much taste for travel. But you know her so much better than I do.' 'She is enjoying herself,' said Alma. 'No need for _you_ to go so far. Down yonder'--he nodded southward--'I was thinking, the other day, of the different kinds of pleasure one gets from scenery in different parts of the world. I have seen the tropics; they left me very much where I was, intellectually. It's the human associations of natural beauty that count. You have no desire to go to the islands of the Pacific?' 'I can't say that I have.' 'Of course not. The springs of art are in the old world. Among the vines and the olives one hears a voice. I must really try to give you some idea of my little place at Riva.' He began a playful description--long, but never tedious; alluring, yet without enthusiasm--a dreamy suggestion of refined delights and luxuries. 'I have another place in the Pyrenees, to suit another mood; and not long ago I was sorely tempted by the offer of a house not far from Antioch, in the valley of the Orontes--a house built by an Englishman. Charming place, and so entirely off the beaten track. Isn't there a fascination in the thought of living near Antioch? Well away from bores and philistines. No Mrs. Grundy with her clinking tea-cups. I dare say the house is still to be had.--Oh, do tell me something about your friend, Fraulein Steinfeld. Is she in earnest? Will she do anything?'