He looked old and worn and tired. Violent passions, especially violent temper, freely indulged, had played their wonted havoc. And these eroding emotions had deepened seam and gutter painfully. There had now appeared the gauntness in eye socket and under jawbone, about the saddest of the forewarnings of decrepitude and death that show in the human countenance with advancing age. Roger pitied him, this really superior man who had given his life furiously to plowing arid golden sands and was reaping ill health and unhappiness as his harvest. “Come in,” said Roger. When they were seated in the cool, airy workroom and had lighted, Richmond a cigar, Roger his pipe, Richmond glanced at the covered picture and said: “Is that it?” “Yes,” replied Roger, not in a tone that invited further conversation along those lines. “I’ve come to see you about it,” persisted Beatrice’s father, apparently undiscouraged. “I do not care to discuss it,” said Roger. “It is a picture of my daughter--painted for----” “It is not a picture of your daughter,” interrupted Roger, “and it was painted for my own amusement.” “My wife gave you the commission, with the idea of a surprise for me.” Roger was silenced. “So,” Richmond went on, “the picture belongs to us.” “No,” said Roger quietly. “I purpose to keep it.” “You certainly have a strange way of doing business,” said Richmond with resolute amiability. “I don’t do business,” replied Roger. Richmond waved his hand. “Oh--call it what you like. Artists paint pictures for money.” “I don’t know about others,” said Roger. “But I paint for my own amusement. And of my work I sell enough to enable me to live.” “Very fine--very fine,” said Richmond, in the tone of a man who doesn’t believe a word of it, but politely wishes to seem impressed. “I saw from the beginning of our acquaintance that you were an unusual man. I’ve thought about you a great deal”--with a sly smile--“naturally.” Roger made a slight inclination of his head. “I owe you an apology for the way I acted the other day. And I make it. I lost my temper--a bad habit I have.” “Yes, it is a bad habit,” said Roger dryly. “A particularly bad one for a man in your position, I should say.” “How in my position?” inquired Richmond, surprised. “Oh, an independent man like me, who asks nothing of anybody, can afford that sort of thing. But you, who are dependent upon others for the success of your plans--that’s very different.” “Um,” grunted Richmond, little pleased but much struck by this new view of him as slave, not master. “Um.” A long pause, with Richmond the more embarrassed because Roger’s silence seemed natural and easy, like that of a statue or of a man alone. “I also--I also wish to say,” Richmond resumed, “that on thinking the matter over I feel I did you an injustice in believing you--in accusing you--” He could not find a satisfactory word frame for his idea.