rumors at length grew to a certainty that Barron was busy painting
somewhere on the cliffs beyond Mousehole. Everybody supposed he had
abandoned his ambition to get a portrait of Joan Tregenza; but one man was
in his confidence: Edmund Murdoch. The young artist had been useful to
Barron. On many occasions he tramped out from Newlyn with additions to the
scanty larder kept at the cow-byre. He would bring hard-boiled eggs,
sandwiches, bottles of soda-water and whisky; and once he arrived at six
o'clock in the morning with a pony cart in which was a little oil stove.
Barron had confided in Murdoch, but begged he would let it be known that he
courted no society for the present. As the work grew he spent more and more
time upon it. He explained to his friend quite seriously that he was
painting the gorse, but that Joan Tregenza had consented to fill a part of
the picture--a statement which amused the younger artist not a little.

"But the gorse is extraordinary, I'll admit. You must have worked without
ceasing. She will be exquisite. Where shall you get the blue for her eyes?"

"Out of the sky and the sea."

"Does the girl inspire you herself, John? I swear something has. This is
going to be great."

"It's going to be true, that's all. No, Joan is a dear child, but her
body's no more than a perfect casket to a commonplace little soul. She
talks a great deal and I like nothing better than to listen; for although
what she says is naught, yet her manner of saying it does not lack charm.
Her voice is wonderfully sweet--it comes from her throat like a
wood-pigeon's, and education has not ruined her diction."

"She's as shy as any wood-pigeon, too--we all know that; and you've done a