"Can I really? You are kind!"

"I want to hear about the manuscript. Was it accepted?" she said
very gently, with her hand on mine.

"Well, that's soon told," I answered. "It wasn't."

She said nothing. Probably she knew that the mere expression "I am
sorry" would be inadequate to say to a man who felt every failure as
keenly as I did, and I hastened to remove her difficulty.

"Don't let us talk of it," I said. "Tell me of the new conception."

"It is to be called 'The Death of Hyacinthus,'" she said, glancing
at the vast, vacant canvas, on which, doubtless, her eye saw the
whole vision already. "The scene is to be flooded with sunlight,
that pours in upon a green, open glade. The life-sized figure of
Hyacinthus will be standing three-quarters towards the spectator,
and a little towards the rush of light from the setting sun. His
eyes are to be fixed upon the quoit which will be here, at this end
of the canvas, opposite him. It will be tinged blood-red in the
sun's rays, and seem a little above him."

She paused, with her eyes on the canvas. She had drifted away on the
stream of her idea. "And what about the two gods?" I asked.

She started.

"Oh yes, I was going to tell you. Zephyrus will only be represented
by the effect of the wind seen on the bushes, on the trees, and