44 The Light That Failed with a small bale of second-hand uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery autumn sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio. “Yes,” said Dick, deliberately, “I like the power; I like the fun; I like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they’re a queer gang, — an amazingly queer gang!” “They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot exhibition of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the “Wild Work Show’?” “Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word, I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist. I should have got better prices if J worked my things on wool or scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and color. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn’t the word to describe ’em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that it was impossible that shadows on white sand should be blue, — ultramarine, — as they are. I found out, later, that the man had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to learn technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that.” “When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?” “T studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal magnetism. All he ever said was, ‘Continuez, mes enfants,’ and you had to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he knew something about color. Kami used to dream color; I swear he