’No man whose soul is stained by fleshly desire shall render in art all that there is in a truly beautiful woman’s face,’ said Wilderspin.  ’I worked hard at imaginative painting; I worked for years and years, Mr. Aylwin, but with scant success.  It shames me to say that I was at last discouraged.  Hut, after a time, I began to feel that the spirit-world was giving me a strength of vision second only to the Master’s own, and a cunning of hand greater than any vouchsafed to man since the death of Raphael.  This was once stigmatised as egotism; but “Faith and Love,” and the predella “Isis behind the Veil,” have told another story.  I did not despair, I say; for I knew the cause of my failure.  Two sources of inspiration were wanting to me—­that of a superlative subject and that of a superlative model.  For the first I am indebted to Philip Aylwin; for the second I am indebted to—­’

‘A greater still, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court,’ interjected Cyril.

’For the second I’m indebted to my mother.  And yet something else was wanting,’ continued Wilderspin, ’to enable me for many months to concentrate my life upon one work—­the self-sacrificing generosity of such a friend as I think no man ever had before.

‘Wilderspin,’ said Cyril, rising, ’the Duke of Little Egypt sleeps, as you see.  His Grace of the Pyramids snores, as you hear.  The autobiography of a man of genius is interesting; but I fear that yours will have to be continued in our next.’

‘But Mr. Aylwin wants to hear—­’

’He and our other idyllic friends are early to bed and early to rise; they have, in the morning, trout to catch for breakfast, and we have a good way to walk to-night.’

‘That’s just like my friend,’ said Wilderspin.  ’That’s my friend all over.’

With this they left us, and we betook ourselves to our usual evening occupations.

Next morning the two painters called upon us.  Wilderspin sketched alone, while Sinfi, Rhona, Cyril, and I went trout-fishing in one of the numerous brooks.

‘What do you think of my friend by this time?’ said Cyril to me.

‘He is my fifth mystic,’ I replied; ’I wonder what the sixth will be like.  Is he really as great a painter as he takes himself to he, or does his art begin and end with flowery words?’

‘I believe,’ said Cyril, pointing across to where Wilderspin sat at work, ’that the strange creature under that white umbrella is the greatest artistic genius now living.  The death of his mother by starvation has turned his head, poor fellow, but turned it to good purpose:  “Faith and Love” is the greatest modern picture in Europe.  To be sure, he has the advantage of painting from the finest model ever seen, the lovely, if rather stupid, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court, whom he monopolises.’