"Meekins, who stands behind my chair," Mr. Fentolin continued, "even
Meekins is entranced. He has a soul, my friend Sarson, although you
might not think it. He, too, sees sometimes the colour in the skies,
the glitter upon the sands, the clear, sweet purity of those long
stretches of virgin water. Meekins, I believe, has a soul, only he
likes better to see these things grow under his master's touch than
to wander about and solve their riddles for himself."

The man remained perfectly immovable. Not a feature twitched. Yet
it was a fact that, although he stood where Mr. Fentolin could not
possibly observe him, he never removed his gaze from the canvas.

"You see, my medical friend, that there has been a great tide in the
night, following upon the flood? Even our small landmarks are
shifted. Soon, in my little carriage, I shall ride down to the
Tower. I shall sit there, and I shall watch the sea. I think that
this evening, with the turn of the tide, the spray may reach even
to my windows there. I shall paint again. There is always
something fresh in the sea, you know--always something fresh in
the sea. Like a human face--angry or pleased, sullen or joyful.
Some people like to paint the sea at its calmest and most beautiful.
Some people like to see happy faces around them. It is not every
one who appreciates the other things. It is not quite like that
with me, eh, Sarson?"

His hand fell to his side. Momentarily he had finished his work.
He turned around and eyed the doctor, who stood in taciturn silence.

"Answer. Answer me," he insisted.