Had she known Louis Neville only two months?  Did all this new buoyancy date from two short months’ experience—­this quickened interest in life, this happy development of intelligence so long starved, this unfolding of youth in the atmosphere of youth?  She found it difficult to realise, lying there so contentedly, so happily, following, with an interest and appreciation always developing, the progress of the work.

Already, to herself, she could interpret much that she saw in this new world.  Cant phrases, bits of studio lore, artists’ patter, their ways of looking at things, their manners of expression, their mannerisms, their little vanities, their ideas, ideals, aspirations, were fast becoming familiar to her.  Also she was beginning to notice and secretly to reflect on their generic characteristics—­their profoundly serious convictions concerning themselves and their art modified by surface individualities; their composite lack of humour—­exceptions like Ogilvy and Annan, and even Neville only proving the rule; their simplicity, running the entire gamut from candour to stupidity; their patience which was half courage, half a capacity for suffering; and, in the latter, more woman-like than like a man.

Simplicity, courage, lack of humour—­those appeared to be the fundamentals characterising the ensemble—­supplemented by the extremes of restless intelligence and grim conservatism.

And the whole fabric seemed to be founded not on industry but on impulse born of sentiment.  In this new, busy, inspiring, delightful world logic became a synthesis erected upon some inceptive absurdity, carried solemnly to a picturesque and erroneous conclusion.

She had been aware, in stage folk, of the tendency to sentimental impulse; and she again discovered it in this new world, in a form slightly modified by the higher average of reasoning power.  In both professions the heart played the dominant part in creator and creation.  The exceptions to the rule were the few in either profession who might be called distinguished.

Neville had once said to her:  “Nothing that amounts to anything in art is ever done accidentally or merely because the person who creates it loves to do it.”

She was thinking of this, now, as she lay there watching him.

He had added:  “Enthusiasm is excellent while you’re dressing for breakfast; but good pictures are painted in cold blood.  Go out into the back yard and yell your appreciation of the universe if you want to; but the studio is a silent place; and a blank canvas a mathematical proposition.”

Could this be true?  Was all the beauty, all the joyous charm, all the splendour of shape and colour the result of working out a mathematical proposition?  Was this exquisite surety of touch and handling, of mass and line composition, all these lovely depths and vast ethereal spaces superbly peopled, merely the logical result of solving that problem?  Was it all clear, limpid, steady, nerveless intelligence; and was nothing due to the chance and hazard of inspiration?