“You’re always getting me to talk,” she said.  “To-day I’m going to exchange places.  Don’t expect me to do anything but listen.”

Sidwell smiled.  “Won’t you even condescend to suggest channels in which my discourse may flow?” he bantered.

The girl hesitated.  “Perhaps,” she ventured, “if I find it necessary.”

For an hour they wandered about, moving slowly, and pausing often to rest.  Sidwell talked well, but somewhat impersonally.  At last, in an out-of-the-way corner, they came to the modest canvas of his friend, and they sat down before it.  The picture was unnamed and unsigned.  Without being extraordinary as a work of art, its subject lent its chief claim to distinction.  Interested because her companion seemed interested, Florence looked at it steadily.  At first there appeared to her nothing but a mountain, steep and rugged, and a weary man who, climbing it, had lain down to rest.  Far down at the mountain’s base she saw where the figure had begun its ascent.  The way was easy there, and the trail, through the abundant grasses crushed underfoot, was of one who had moved rapidly.  Gradually, with the upward incline, obstacles had increased, and the footprints drew nearer together.  Still higher, from a straight line the trail had become tortuous and irregular.  Here the climber had passed around a thicket of trees; there a great boulder had stood in the path; but, ever indomitable, the way had been steadily upward toward some point the climber had in view.  Steeper and steeper the way had grown.  The prints on the rocky mountain-side, from being those of feet only, merged into those made by hands.  The man had begun to crawl, making his way inch by inch.  Fragments of his torn clothing hung on the points of rocks.  Dim brown lines showed the path his body had taken, as he sometimes slipped back.  Breaks in the scant vegetation told where his fingers had clutched desperately to halt his descent.  Yet each time the reverse had been but temporary; he had returned, and mounted higher and higher.  But at last there had come the end.  He had reached his present place in the picture.  By gripping tightly he could hold his own, but to advance was impossible.  Straight above him, a sheer wall, many times his own height, was the blank, unbroken face of the rock.  That he had tried to scale even this was evident, for finger-marks from bleeding hands were thick thereon; but he had finally abandoned the effort.  Physically, he was conquered.  It seemed that one could almost hear the quick coming and going of his breath.  Yet, prostrate as he lay, his eyes were turned toward the barrier his body could not scale, to a something which crowned its utmost height,—­something indefinite and unattainable,—­the supreme desire and purpose of his life.

The two spectators sat silent.  Other visitors came near, glanced at the canvas and at the pair of observers, and passed on with muffled footsteps.

The girl turned, and, as on the night at the roof-garden, found the man’s eyes upon her.