straight for the boats of the fishing fleet that dotted the bay....

It must have been fully a quarter of an hour later that Knight, having
finished his cigarette, came out of his reverie.

"And so, you see," he remarked in the tone of one pleasantly rounding
off a conversation, "until my picture is painted I remain the slave of
my dream. I wonder if I have succeeded at all in making myself
intelligible."

His eyes opened lazily and met Rufus's sombre gaze; they held a laughing
challenge, the easy challenge of the practised fencer who condescends
to try a bout with ignorance.

Stolidly Rufus met the look. If he realised the challenge he did not
accept it. He had barred himself in once more behind an impenetrable
wall of unresponsiveness. His gaze was once more obscure and bovine. All
hint of violence was gone from his bearing. Only solid force
remained--the force that drove the boat strongly, unerringly, through
the golden-crested waves.

"If you're going to do a picture of Columbine," he said slowly, "I hope
it'll be a good one."

"It will probably be--great," said Knight, and flicked some ash from his
sleeve with the complacent air of a man who has accomplished his
purpose.