_"Well,"_ he muttered, "can't I make this come out right ?" Then he tried more carefully.

His imagination saw the picture clearer, his hand moved with more assurance, but the two seemed to act independently of each other.

The forms he made on the canvas were no adequate reflection of those in his brain; some third delicate and subtle faculty that coordinated the other two and that called forth a sure and instant response to the dictates of his mind, was lacking.

The lines on his canvas were those of a child just learning to draw; one saw for what they were intended, but they were crude, they had no life, no meaning.

The very thing that would have made them intelligible, interpretive, that would have made them art, was absent.