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 dered, had an energy and sweep worthy of a more ambitious composition. The longer Casimir regarded it, the more Grover realized, to his pleasure and surprise, that its very amateurishness was in its favor.

"This one shows originality," Casimir finally pronounced. "You have an appealing talent. Not a great talent—a nice little one. These others," and he waved his hand over the discarded heap, "are unconsciously imitative and mean nothing in particular. Your cats are original, too. Excessively feline, they are at the same time very human. You have drawn them not as a cat would see them, but as a man, and a very special man, would see them. You project your own nature into the object you are depicting, and that is well. But you are also capriciously reticent; you exercise a reserve which is no doubt a quality that makes for the strength of your race, but prohibits free expression. A true artist holds nothing back; he invests all and takes all. Half measures make for an attitude, but not for creation. Attitudes are of interest; they are not of importance."

A little chagrined, a little excited, Grover was thinking of de Musset and the pelican. For a moment the old enthusiasm flared up in him. At least Casimir had dug out of the rubbish heap two sketches which were not banal. And Casimir was a howling genius; M. Ripert would no doubt have found more. That indicated that he, Grover Thanet, had it in him to be a painter sui generis. Yet, alas, wasn't the meanest car-