It passed the bounds even of lawful magic.
His palace, his museum! The fruit of a captious hour! Ah! But he was furious.

Like every ageing artist of genuine accomplishment, he knew--none better--that there is no satisfaction save the satisfaction of fatigue after honest endeavour.

He knew--none better--that wealth and glory and fine clothes are nought, and that striving is all.

He had never been happier than during the last two years.

Yet the finest souls have their reactions, their rebellions against wise reason.