Chapter 4

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!'

'They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot exhibition
of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the
"Wild Work Show"?'

'Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word,
I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist.

I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or
scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and
colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn't the
word to describe 'em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that it
was impossible that shadows on white sand should be
blue,--ultramarine,--as they are. I found out, later, that the man had been
as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him. He
gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to learn
technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that.'

'When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?'

'I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal
magnetism. All he ever said was, "Continuez, mes enfants," and you had
to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch,