"But it was giving up after all--acquiescence, despondency, a _laissez
faire_ policy."

"One may tire of fighting."

"One may. Another may not."

"I think you have never had to fight very hard."

He turned his head abruptly; after a moment's silent survey of her, he
resumed his painting with a sharp, impersonal glance before every swift
and decisive brush stroke:

"No; I have never had to fight, Miss West.... It was keen of you to
recognise it. I have never had to fight at all. Things come easily to
me--things have a habit of coming my way.... I suppose I'm not exactly
the man to lecture anybody on the art of fighting fortune. She's always
been decent to me.... Sometimes I'm afraid--I have an instinct that
she's too friendly.... And it troubles me. Do you understand what I
mean?"

"Yes."

He looked up at her: "Are you sure?"

"I think so. I have been watching you painting. I never imagined
anybody could draw so swiftly, so easily--paint so surely, so
accurately--that every brush stroke could be so--so significant, so
decisive.... Is it not unusual? And is not that what is called
facility?"