“What name does your friend give to his work?” she asked.

“He calls it ‘The Unattainable.’”

“And what is its meaning?”

“Ambition, perfection, complete happiness—­anything striven for with one’s whole soul.”

Florence was studying her companion now as steadily as he had been studying her a moment before.  “To your—­friend it meant—­”

“Happiness.”

The girl’s hands were clasped in her lap in a way she had when her thoughts were concentrated.  “And he never found it?” she asked.

Unconsciously one of Sidwell’s hands made a downward motion of deprecation.  “He did not.  We made the circuit of the earth together in pursuit of it—­but all was useless.  It seemed as though the more he searched the more he was baffled in his quest.”

For a moment the girl made no reply, but in her lap her hands clasped tighter and tighter.  A thought that made her finger-tips tingle was taking form in her mind.  A dim comprehension of the nature of this man had first suggested it; the fact that the canvas was unsigned had helped give it form.  The speaker’s last words, his even tone of voice, had not passed unnoticed.  She turned to the canvas, searched the skilfully concealed outlines of the tattered figure with the upturned eyes.  The clasped hands grew white with the tension.

“I didn’t know before you were an artist as well as a writer,” she said evenly.

Sidwell turned quickly.  The girl could feel his look.  “I fear,” he said, “I fail to grasp your meaning.  You think—­”

Florence met the speaker’s look steadily.  “I don’t think,” she said, “I know.  You painted the picture, Mr. Sidwell.  That man there on the mountain-side is you!”

Her companion hesitated.  His face darkened; his lips opened to speak and closed again.

The girl continued watching him with steady look.  “I can hardly believe it,” she said absently.  “It seems impossible.”

Sidwell forced a smile.  “Impossible?  What?  That I should paint a daub like that?”

The girl’s tense hands relaxed wearily.

“No, not that you paint, but that the man there—­the one finding happiness unattainable—­should be you.”

The lids dropped just a shade over Sidwell’s black eyes.  “And why, if you please, should it be more remarkable that I am unhappy than another?”

This time Florence took him up quickly.  “Because,” she answered, “you seem to have everything one can think of that is needed to make a human being happy—­wealth, position, health, ability—­all the prizes other people work their lives out for or die for.”  Again the voice dropped.  “I can’t understand it.”  She was silent a moment.  “I can’t understand it,” she repeated.

From the girl’s face the man’s eyes passed to the canvas, and rested there.  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose it is difficult, almost impossible, for you to realize why I am—­as I am.  You have never had the personal experience—­and we only understand what we have felt.  The trouble with me is that I have experienced too much, felt too much.  I’ve ceased to take things on trust.  Like the youth and the key flower I’ve forgotten the best.”  The voice paused, but the eyes still kept to the canvas.