"That my work is a failure."
"How humiliating! May I ask in what way?"
"I could withstand the charms of the picture, but with the original"—
"Well, and with the original?"
"I failed."
The face before him was radiant; but down in his heart the small voice, growing very faint, still whispered, "Coward—traitor—fool."
That evening Harry Lawton found him sitting gloomily before the window looking out upon the shadows that were gathering in the little garden beneath. As the door opened he glanced up and nodded without speaking.
"Circe came?"
Again the artist nodded.
"And conquered?"