"I can't eat to-night," he said presently. "Do you think that man is lingering about the church still?" They got up from the table and went over to the fire. The painter lit a pipe. "I hope not," Uniacke said, "but it is useless attempting to govern him. He is harmless, but he must be left alone. He cannot endure being watched or followed." "I wish we hadn't gone to the church. I can't get over our cruelty." "It was inadvertent." "Cruelty so often is, Uniacke. But we ought to look forward and foresee consequences. I feel that most especially to-night. Remorse is the wage of inadvertence." As he spoke, he looked gloomily into the fire. The young clergyman felt oddly certain that the great man had more to say, and did not interrupt his pause, but filled it in for himself by priestly considerations on the useless illumination worldly success seems generally to afford to the searchers after happiness. His reverie was broken by the painter's voice saying: "I myself, Uniacke, am curiously persecuted by remorse. It is that, or partly that, which has affected my health so gravely, and led me away from my home, my usual habits of life, at this season of the year." "Yes?" the clergyman said, with sympathy, without curiosity. "And yet, I suppose it would seem a little matter to most people. The odd thing is that it assumes such paramount importance in my life; for I'm not what is called specially conscientious, except as regards my art, of course, and the ordinary honourable dealings one decent man naturally has with his fellows." "Your conscience, in fact, limits its operations a good deal, I know." "Precisely. But if it will not bore you, I will tell you something of all this." "Thank you, Sir Graham." "How the wind shakes those curtains!" "Nothing will keep it out of these island houses. You aren't cold?" "Not in body, not a bit. Well, Uniacke, do you ever go to see pictures?" "Whenever I can. That's not often now. But when my work lay in cities I had chances which are denied me at present." "Did you ever see a picture of mine called 'A sea urchin'?" "Yes, indeed--that boy looking at the waves rolling in!--who could forget him? The soul of the sea was in his eyes. He was a human being, and yet he seemed made of all sea things." "He had never set eyes upon the sea." "What?" cried Uniacke, in sheer astonishment, "the boy who sat for that picture? Impossible! When I saw it I felt that you had by some happy chance lit on the one human being who contained the very soul of an element. No merman could so belong of right to the sea as that boy." "Who was a London model, and had never heard the roar of waves or seen the surf break in the wind." "Genius!" the clergyman exclaimed. "Uniacke," continued the painter, "I got L1,000 for that picture. And I call the money now blood-money to myself." "Blood-money! But why?"