And again Mr.Jack, looking into the sympathetic, glowing dark eyes, wondered if, after all, David really could--know.
Even yet Mr.Jack was not used to David; there were "so many of him," he told himself.

There were the boy, the artist, and a third personality so evanescent that it defied being named.

The boy was jolly, impetuous, confidential, and delightful--plainly reveling in all manner of fun and frolic.

The artist was nothing but a bunch of nervous alertness, ready to find melody and rhythm in every passing thought or flying cloud.

The third--that baffling third that defied the naming--was a dreamy, visionary, untouchable creature who floated so far above one's head that one's hand could never pull him down to get a good square chance to see what he did look like.