Neville sat thinking, watching the landscape speed away on either side in a running riot of green.

“Self-denial—­too much of it—­separates you from your kind,” said Querida.  “The solitary fasters are never personally pleasant; hermits are the world’s public admiration and private abomination.  Oh, the good world dearly loves to rub elbows with a talented sinner and patronise him and sentimentalise over him—­one whose miracles don’t hurt their eyes enough to blind them to the pleasant discovery that his halo is tarnished in spots and needs polishing, and that there’s a patch on the seat of his carefully creased toga.”

Neville laughed.  Presently he said:  “Until recently I’ve cherished theories.  One of ’em was to subordinate everything in life to the enjoyment of a single pleasure—­the pleasure of work....  I guess experience is putting that theory on the blink.”

“Surely.  You might as well make an entire meal of one favourite dish.  For a day you could stand it, even like it, perhaps.  After that—­” he shrugged.

“But—­I’d rather spend my time painting—­if I could stand the diet.”

“Would you?  I don’t know what I’d rather do.  I like almost everything.  It makes me paint better to talk to a pretty woman, for example.  To kiss her inspires a masterpiece.”

“Does it?” said Neville, thoughtfully.

“Of course.  A week or two of motoring—­riding, dancing, white flannel idleness—­all these I adore.  And,” tapping his carefully pinned lilac tie—­“inside of me I know that every pleasant experience, every pleasure I offer myself, is going to make me a better painter!”

“Experience,” repeated the other.

“By all means and every means—­experience in pleasure, in idleness, in love, in sorrow—­but experience!—­always experience, by hook or by crook, and at any cost.  That is the main idea, Neville—­my main idea—­like the luscious agglomeration of juicy green things which that cow is eating; they all go to make good milk.  Bah!—­that’s a stupid simile,” he added, reddening.

Neville laughed.  Presently he pointed across the meadows.

“Is that your sister’s place?” asked Querida with enthusiasm, interested and disappointed.  “What a charming house!”

“That is Ashuelyn, my sister’s house.  Beyond is El Nauar, Cardemon’s place....  Here we are.”

The small touring car stopped; the young men descended to a grassy terrace where a few people in white flannels had gathered after breakfast.  A slender woman, small of bone and built like an undeveloped girl, came forward, the sun shining on her thick chestnut hair.

“Hello, Lily,” said Neville.

“Hello, Louis.  Thank you for coming, Mr. Querida—­it is exceedingly nice of you to come—­” She gave him her firm, cool hand, smiled on him with unfeigned approval, turned and presented him to the others—­Miss Aulne, Miss Swift, Miss Annan, a Mr. Cameron, and, a moment later, to her husband, Gordon Collis, a good-looking, deeply sun-burned young man whose only passion, except his wife and baby, was Ashuelyn, the home of his father.