over the silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his
gesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. "It
bores me, and I don't believe it can be right."

His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked
dress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward
anxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.

"But, Nicholas," she said, "what do you mean? You have earned all
this by your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the
country. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate."

He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit
a fresh cigarette.

"Quite right, my dear," said he, "you are always right on practical
affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are
realistic and radical. They teach the doctrine of the universal
level, that no man can be above other men. They have made poverty,
perhaps not exactly popular, but at least romantic. My villains
are always rich and my heroes poor. The people like this; but it is
rather a strain to believe it and keep on believing it. If my work
is to hold the public it must have illustrations--moving pictures,
you know! Something in character! Nobody else can do that as well
as I can. It will be better than many advertisements. I am going
to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a primitive."

His wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She
knew her husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just
how far it would carry him.