You've painted brilliantly, in the pine picture for instance, what you wanted to see, a dark forest for mystic folk to dance in when the moonlight lies upon the snow." "And what," inquired Kenny with a shade of sarcasm, "was the final verdict of the grill jury when all the evidence was in ?" "Remember old Dirk, Kenny?
He said that the fullness of life came through--sacrifice.

That all things, good and permanent and true, come only out of suffering; that men pay for their dreams with pain." He let the full import of that drive home.

"The verdict was, that if you'd forget your public and look for truth, paint with restraint and less brilliant illusory abandon, you'd be a big painter." "And that," said Kenny with icy politeness, "unalterably defines my status as a painter.

In this club at least." "You asked me--" Kenny looked tired but he held out his hand.

"Dear lad," he said, "'twas fine brave friendship to tell me--when I asked you." Failure! He, Kennicott O'Neill who had been decorated by the French government! The men in the grill then talked openly of his flaws and the verdict, officious or otherwise, was failure.