Clive Gail, lately admitted to the Academy said: "I have never in my
life seen or believed possible such facility as is Louis Neville's."

"Sure thing," grunted Burleson.

"His personal manner of doing his work--which the critics and public
term 'tek--nee--ee--eek,'" laughed Annan, "is simply gloriously
bewildering. There is a sweeping splendour to it--and _what_ colour!"

There ensued murmured and emphatic approbation; and another silence.

Ogilvy's dark, pleasant face was troubled when he broke the quiet, and
everybody turned toward him:

"Then," he said, slowly, "what _is_ the matter with Neville?"

Somebody said: "He _does_ convince you; it isn't that, is it?"

A voice replied: "Does he convince himself?"

"There is--there always has been something lacking in all that big,
glorious, splendid work. It only needs that one thing--whatever it is,"
said Ogilvy, quietly. "Kelly is too sure, too powerfully perfect, too
omniscient--"

"And we mortals can't stand that," commented Annan, laughing. "'Raus mit
Neville!' He paints joy and sorrow as though he'd never known either--"

And his voice checked itself of its own instinct in the startled