CHAPTER IV 

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung gray: He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey. 

But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away. 

And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose. 

--In Seonee. 

'WELL, and how does success taste?' said Torpenhow, some three months later. He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in the country. 

'Good,' said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in the studio. 

'I want more,--heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I approve of these fat ones.' 

'Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.' 

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background, and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose from a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts, and regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of second-hand uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery autumn sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio. 

'Yes,' said Dick, deliberately, 'I like the power; I like the fun; I like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer gang,--an amazingly queer gang!' 
What season of the year was it now?
The watery autumn sunlight 