The simple Brady forgot the powder in swallowing the jam. Barron had
touched those things in his work which were precious to him. His impulsive
nature took fire, and there was almost a quiver of emotion in his big voice
as he answered:

"Damn it, you're a brick! I'd sooner hear you praise those lumps of
sea-spume, racing over the sand there, than see my picture on the line."

But sentiment was strange to John Barron's impersonal nature, and he froze.

"Another fault exists which probably nobody will tell you but me. Your
seaweed's great, and you knew it by heart before you painted it--that I'll
swear to, but your sleeper there would never lie in the line of it as you
have him. Reflect: the sea must float the light weed after it could move
him no more. He should be stogged in the sand nearer the sea."

Brady, however, contested this criticism, and so the talk wore on until the
men separated. But the Irishman called on Barron after midday dinner and
together they strolled through Newlyn toward the neighboring village.
Chance brought them face to face with two persons more vital to the
narrative than themselves, and, pausing to chronicle the event of the
meeting, we may leave the artists and follow those whom they encountered.

Gray Michael kept ashore on Sundays, and today, having come off the sea at
dawn, was not again putting forth until next morning. He had attended
meeting with his wife, his daughter and his son; he had dined also, and was
now walking over to Mousehole that he might bring some religious comfort to
a sorely stricken Luke Gospeler--a young sheep but lately won to the fold
and who now lay at the point of death. Joan accompanied him, and upon the
way they met John Barron and his companion. The girl blushed hotly and then