62 The Light That Failed the little crowd than in the picture. That was something that she could understand. “And I wanted it so! Oh, I did want it so!” she said at last, under her breath. “Me, — all me!” said Dick, placidly. “Look at their faces. It hits em. They don’t know what makes their eyes and mouths open; but I know. And I know my work’s right.” “Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come to one!” “Come to one, indeed! I had to go out and look for it. What do you think?” “T call it success. Tell me how you got it.” They returned to the Park, and Dick delivered himself of the saga of his own doings, with all the arrogance of a young man speaking to a woman. From the beginning he told the tale, the I — I — I’s flashing through the records as telegraph-poles fly past the traveler. Maisie listened and nodded her head. The histories of strife and privation did not move her a hair’s-breadth. At the end of each canto he would conclude, “And that gave me some notion of handling color,” or light, or whatever it might be that he had set out to pursue and understand. He led her breathless across half the world, speaking as he had never spoken in his life before. And in the flood-tide of his exaltation there came upon him a great desire to pick up this maiden who nodded her head and said, “I understand. Go on,” — to pick her up and carry her away with him, because she was Maisie, and because she understood, and because she was his right, and a woman to be desired above all women. Then he checked himself abruptly. “And so I took all I wanted,” he said, “and I had to fight for it. Now you tell.” Maisie’s tale was almost as gray as her dress. It covered years of patient toil backed by savage pride