THE PATH OF VISION
bribe it with attractive objects from the toy-shop of Cleverness, shook before it the ivory rattle of Flippancy, there was no response,—not the least sign of favor. To him it seemed locked and sealed forever and ever. But one of the little imp-gods that guarded it, once grinned. Which decided my friend. H shook the dust of the bazaar from his feet, the dust of the studio he shook from his soul, and hied him to the solitude of the hills.
There I met him one day sitting under a tree near a running stream, still nursing, as I first supposed, his genius. He was still handsome, but neither robust, did he seem, nor impecunious. In fact, he had solved, he told me, the economic problem, and was, therefore, contemplating suicide.
—But this damned stream is not deep enough anywhere. And I have not the courage to hang myself or put a bullet through my brain. Brain? I don't think I have any left. I'm all nerves, nerves—and white corpuscles. I can't even bear the sight of flowers. And the chatter of
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