crueller still. The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to mortals,
but they exact a desperate interest."

The boy's hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled again.

"I know that; but it does not frighten me."

"A challenge? Take care! The gods are always listening."

"I know that. I am not afraid."

"So be it, then! I'll watch the duel. But what road do you
follow--music? literature? Art of some sort, of course; you are artist
all over."

Again the fire leaped to the boy's eyes. He snatched his hand away in
quick excitement.

"Look! I will show you!"

With the swiftness of lightning he whipped a pencil from his pocket,
pushed aside his coffee-cup, and began to draw upon the marble-topped
table as though his life depended upon his speed.

For ten minutes he worked feverishly, his face intensely earnest, his
head bent over his task, a lock of dark hair drooping across his
forehead; then he looked up, throwing himself back in his chair and
gazing up at his companion with the egotistical triumph--the intense,
childish satisfaction of the artist in the first flush of accomplished
work.