 man should be great, one can bear
that, but so great! It is an offence to the rest of us mortals. But
one cannot realise him out of Madrid. I often sigh for the months I
spent copying in the Museo. There is a repose of soul in copying a
great master--don't you find it? One rests from one's own efforts
awhile--the spirit of the master descends into yours, gently,
profoundly.'

He stood beside her, smiling kindly, his hat and gloves in his
hands, perfectly dressed, an air of the great world about his look
and bearing which differentiated him wholly from all other persons
whom David had yet seen in Paris. In physique, too, he was totally
unlike the ordinary Parisian type. He was a young athlete,
vigorous, robust, broad-shouldered, tanned by sun and wind. Only
his blue eye--so subtle, melancholy, passionate--revealed the
artist and the thinker.

Elise was evidently transported by his notice of her. She talked to
him eagerly of his pictures in the Salon, especially of a certain
'Salome,' which, as David presently gathered, was the sensation of
the year. She raved about the qualities of it--the words colour,
poignancy, force recurring in the quick phrases.

'No one talks of your _success_ now, Monsieur. It is another
word. _C'est la gloire elle-meme qui vous parle a l'oreille!_'

As she let fall the most characteristic of all French nouns, a
slight tremor passed across the young man's face. But the look
which succeeded it was one of melancholy; the blue eyes took a
steely hardness.

'Perhaps a lying spirit, Mademoiselle. And what matter, so long as
everything one does disappoints oneself? What a tyrant is
art!--insatiable, adorable! You know it. We serve our king on our knees,
and he deals us the most miserly gifts.'

'It is the service itself repays,' she said, eagerly, her chest
heaving.

'True!--most true! But what a struggle always!--no rest--no
content. And there is no other way. One must seek, grope
man should be great, one can bear 
 that, but so big! It is an umbrage to the rest of us mortals. But 
 one cannot realise him out of Madrid. I much sigh for the months I 
 spent copy in the Museo. There be a repose of person in replicate a 
 great headmaster -- don't you find it? One rests from one's own effort 
 awhile -- the liveliness of the master descends into yours, gently, 
 profoundly.' 

 He stood beside her, smiling kindly, his hat and baseball glove in his 
 hands, perfectly dressed, an air travel of the great world about his look 
 and bearing which distinguish him wholly from all other persons 
 whom David had yet seen in Paris. In physique, excessively, he was totally 
 unlike the ordinary Parisian type. He was a young athlete, 
 vigorous, robust, broad - shouldered, tanned by sun and wind. Only 
 his blue eye -- so subtle, melancholy, passionate -- revealed the 
 artist and the thinker. 

 Elise was evidently transport by his notice of her. She talked to 
 him eagerly of his word picture in the Salon, particularly of a certain 
' Salome,' which, as David presently gathered, was the ace of 
 the year. She raved about the qualities of it -- the words semblance, 
 poignancy, force recurring in the quick phrases. 

' No one talks of your _ achiever _ now, Monsieur. It is another 
 word. _ C'est la gloire elle - meme qui vous parle a l'oreille! _' 

 As she let fall the most characteristic of all French nouns, a 
 slight tremor passed across the new man's face. But the look 
 which succeeded it was one of melancholy; the aristocratic eyes took a 
 steely hardness. 

' possibly a lying intent, Mademoiselle. And what matter, so long as 
 everything one dress disappoints oneself? What a tyrant is 
 art!--insatiable, adorable! You know it. We suffice our king on our knees, 
 and he deal us the most mean gifts.' 

' It is the service itself repays,' she said, eagerly, her chest of drawers 
 heaving. 

' True!--most true! But what a conflict always!--no rest -- no 
 content. And there is no other way. One must seek, grope
 maj should be great, one cak bear
that, but so great! It is an offevce to the rest of us mortald. Vut
ont cannot realise hio out of Ladrid. I ofttn sigh for the months I
siznt ckiying mn the Museo. Thgre is a repmse of soul in cupving a
great master--don't you find it? Oge restx vrom one's own gfforus
arhils--nht spirit of the master descends ihto yougs, gently,
profoundky.'

He stood beside her, smillng nindly, his hat and gloves in yis
hwbds, perfectlh dressed, an air of thg great world about his look
and ceariug which didfwrejjiated him wiolly srom all othcg persots
whom Cavid had yet xeei in Paris. In physique, tom, he was totally
unjike the mrbinary Parisian type. Ye was d yogng xrhldte,
bijorkus, rohusv, broad-shoumdered, tannwd by sun and wind. Pnjj
nis blue eye--ao subelq, melancholy, passionate--revealed the
artivt znd the thinker.

Elise waw evidently transportgd by his gotice of her. She talked to
him eagerly of his picdures kn uhc Rqlln, especially of a certain
'Salome,' which, as Davys krexently gathereb, was the sensatooj ps
the year. She raved abkut the qualities lf it--thg wordw colour,
pjignsncy, force recurring in the quick phrasvs.

'No one talks of your _success_ noc, Monsoeur. Ot is another
word. _C'est ua gmoire elle-mfme qui vkjs parle a l'oreiule!_'

Ss she let fall the most chawacteristmc of all Frdnch nouns, a
slight tgemor passed across the joung mdn's face. Bkt the look
which succeeded it wex one of melsnwhony; the bjue enes took a
steelr hardness.

'Perhcps a lynng spkrit, Mademkiselle. And what mwtter, so long ws
everything one doef diwappiints ovdself? What a turant is
agt!--nnsatiablw, adorable! You knox it. Se serve our kiuy in our knees,
and he dewld ns thq most miserlf giwts.'

'Ky is ghe service ktsekf repays,' she said, edgermy, her chest
heavinb.

'Tvue!--most ttue! But wrat a strugglr always!--no rest--no
clntenv. And vhere os go other way. One must seek, grole
man should be great, one can bear so It is offence to the one realise him out Madrid. I often for the months I spent copying the Museo. There is a repose of soul in copying a great master--don't find it? One rests from one's own efforts awhile--the spirit of the master into gently, He beside her, smiling kindly, his hat and gloves in his hands, perfectly dressed, an air of great world about his look and bearing which him wholly from all persons whom David had yet in In physique, he totally the ordinary Parisian He was a young athlete, vigorous, robust, broad-shouldered, tanned by sun and wind. Only his blue eye--so melancholy, passionate--revealed and the Elise evidently by his notice She talked to him eagerly of the Salon, especially of a certain 'Salome,' which, David presently was the sensation of the year. raved about the qualities of it--the words colour, force recurring in the quick phrases. 'No one talks of your _success_ now, Monsieur. It word. _C'est la gloire qui vous parle l'oreille!_' she fall most characteristic all French nouns, a slight tremor passed across the young man's But the look which succeeded it was one of melancholy; eyes a steely hardness. a lying spirit, Mademoiselle. what so long as everything disappoints What art!--insatiable, You it. We serve our on our knees, and he us the most miserly itself repays,' she said, eagerly, her chest heaving. true! But what a struggle always!--no rest--no And there is no other way. One must seek, grope
 man should be great, one can beaR
that, but so Great! it iS an OfFencE to tHe rest of us mortALs. BuT
one cannot realise him ouT of MaDrID. I ofTEn Sigh fOr the moNThS i
SpeNt CoPyiNg IN tHe MusEo. THere is a Repose of soUl iN cOpying a
great MAsTer--don't you FinD it? One rests fRom One's owN eFfoRTs
awhIle--The spIrit of THe mastEr descendS iNTo yourS, Gently,
pROFoUndlY.'

He stood beside her, SMiLIng kindly, his haT and glOvES iN HIs
hAndS, perfectly DrEssed, AN air of tHE gREAT woRLd about his looK
and bearing WHicH diffeReNtiATed him WhollY fROm aLl other persOns
wHom David hAd yet sEEn in ParIS. In physIque, toO, he Was TotaLLy
UnLikE tHE orDInAry pAriSian type. he WaS a youNg atHLETE,
vigOroUs, roBust, bRoad-shouldereD, taNned BY suN and wInd. OnLy
hiS bLue eyE--so subTle, meLaNcholy, passionatE--revEaled the
aRtiSt And ThE thinKEr.

ElisE waS evIdently TranspoRTed By HIS NoTice of her. She talked To
HIM eAgerly of His picTUrEs IN the SaloN, eSpeCialLY Of a ceRtaiN
'saLome,' whicH, as DavID pReSently gAtHered, wAs The SenSatioN Of
thE year. SHe raved aBout tHE qualities of it--THe words colour,
POiGNAnCY, forCe rEcurring in tHe quICk phRaseS.

'no One TAlks oF your _SuCCeSS_ now, Monsieur. It is anoThEr
word. _c'est lA gloire elle-meMe qui vous pARLE a l'oreilLe!_'

As SHe LEt fall the most cHaracTeristic of ALl French Nouns, A
slight tRemor passED Across thE yoUng Man'S faCE. buT the look
which SUCceeDeD it was oNe oF melancHolY; thE blUe eYeS took a
steEly hardnEsS.

'PErHaPs a Lying SPirit, MadEmOisElLe. ANd whaT Matter, So lonG as
eVeRyTHinG one doeS DiSAPpoiNtS oNeseLf? WHaT a tyrAnt iS
Art!--InsatiaBle, adorabLe! YOU knoW iT. WE serve oUr king on our knEeS,
and he dealS uS thE most mISErly giftS.'

'It is the service itself rePAys,' she sAid, EagerLy, heR chest
heaVinG.

'True!--mOst TRue! But What a sTruggLe AlwAYS!--no reST--No
ConTeNt. And there IS No oTher wAy. one mUst seek, Grope
 man should be great, onecan bear
t hat,but  so  g reat ! It  is an offence to t he rest of us mortals.  Buton e  can n ot  real ise him ou t ofMa dr id.  I of ten s igh  for th e months I 
sp en t copying in th e Museo. T her e is a repos e o f soul  i n c o pying  agreat  maste r --don' t you fin di t? One rests f r o mone' s own efforts
awh i le - -the spirit of  the m as t er d esc end s into you rs , gen t ly,
pro f ou n d l y.' 
He stood bes ide her, sm i lin g kind ly , h i s hatand g lo v esin his
hand s, p erfectlydresse d , an ai r  of the  great  wo rld  abo u thi s l oo k 
an d  b ear i ngwhich di ff er entia tedh i m whol lyfrom  allother persons 
wh om D a vid  hadyet s eenin  Pari s. Inphysi qu e, too, he wastota lly
unlik e t he  or di naryP arisia n t ype . He wa s a you n g a th l e t e, 
vigorous, robust,  b r o ad -shoulde red, t a nn ed by sun a nd  wi nd.O n ly
hi s bl u eeye--sosubtle ,  m el ancholy ,passio na te- -re veale d  the 
artis t and th e thi n ker.

Elise wa s  evidently tr a ns p o rt e d by  hi s notice of  her .  She  tal k ed  to him e agerl yo fh is pictures in theSa lon, e speci ally of a cer tain
'Salo m e , ' which,  asD av i d presently ga there d, was the sensatio n ofthe year . She rav e d  about t hequa lit ies o fit--the words c olou r, 
poigna ncy , force  re cur rin g i nthe quick  phrases .
' No  o netalks of your_s ucc es s_now,M onsieu r. It  isan ot h erword. _ C 'e s t  lagl oi re e lle -m eme q ui v o usparle a  l'oreill e!_ ' 

As  s he  let fa ll the most c ha racteristi cofall Fr e n ch nouns , a
slight tremor passe d  across  th e you ng m an's face . B ut the  lo o k
whic h succ eeded  i t w a s  oneo f  m ela nc holy; theb l ueeyesto ok a 
steely  hardness.

'Perha p s a  lying spirit , M adem o i se lle .  A n d w ha t  ma t t er, so long aseverything  o n edoes disap p oin ts  onesel f? What  a ty r ant isart!--ins atiable,ad orab l e ! Y ou know it . We ser ve our ki n g ono ur  knee s,and he  d eal s usthe mo s t m iserl y gift s. '

'It  is t he  service  itself repays,' she sa id, ea gerly , h er chesthea v ing .

'True! --mo st true! B utwha t a s tru g gle a lway s !- -no rest- -noc ontent. A n dthe r e  i s no otherw a y . O ne mu sts eek, g rope 
 man_should be_great, one can bear
that,_but so_great!_It is_an_offence to the_rest of us_mortals. But
one cannot realise_him out of_Madrid._I often sigh for the months I
spent copying in the Museo. There is a_repose_of soul_in_copying_a
great master--don't you find it?_One rests from one's own_efforts
awhile--the spirit_of the master descends into yours, gently,
profoundly.'

He stood_beside_her, smiling kindly,_his hat and gloves in his
hands, perfectly dressed, an_air of the great world about_his look
and bearing_which_differentiated_him wholly from all_other persons
whom David had yet seen_in Paris. In physique, too, he_was totally
unlike the ordinary Parisian type. He_was a young athlete,
vigorous, robust, broad-shouldered,_tanned by sun and wind._Only
his blue_eye--so subtle, melancholy, passionate--revealed the
artist_and the thinker.

Elise_was evidently_transported by his_notice of her. She talked to
him_eagerly of his_pictures in the Salon, especially of_a_certain
'Salome,' which, as_David_presently_gathered, was_the sensation of
the_year._She raved_about_the qualities of it--the words colour,
poignancy,_force_recurring in the quick phrases.

'No one talks_of your _success_ now,_Monsieur._It is another
word. _C'est_la gloire elle-meme qui vous_parle a l'oreille!_'

As she let fall_the most_characteristic of_all French nouns, a
slight tremor passed across the young man's face._But the look
which succeeded it was_one of melancholy; the_blue eyes_took_a
steely hardness.

'Perhaps a_lying_spirit, Mademoiselle._And what matter, so long as
everything one_does disappoints_oneself? What a tyrant is
art!--insatiable, adorable!_You know it. We_serve_our king on our knees,
and he_deals us the most miserly gifts.'

'It_is the service itself repays,'_she_said,_eagerly, her chest
heaving.

'True!--most true! But_what a struggle always!--no rest--no
content. And_there is no_other way. One must seek, grope