An evening light-between sunset and moonrise.

The sky gold--and the torches.

Then below--in the crowd, the autumn woods, the distant River of Death, towards which the procession moves--a massing of blues and purples'-- his hand--pointing--worked rapidly over the canvas; 'and here, some pale rose, black, emerald green, dimly woven in--and lastly, the whites of the bride-maidens, and of the bride upon her bier--towards which, of course, the whole construction mounts.' 'I see!--a sort of Mantegna Triumph--with a difference!' 'The drawing's all right,' said Fenwick, with a long breath, and a stretch.

'If I can only get the paint as I want it'-- he stooped forward again peering into the canvas--'it's the _handling of the paint_--that's what excites me! I want to get it broad and pure--no messing--no working over!--a fine surface!--and yet none of your waxy prettiness.

The forms like Millet--simple--but full of knowledge.
_Ah!_'-- he took up a brush, flung it down bitterly, and turned on his heel--'I can draw!--but why did no one ever teach me to paint ?' Eugenie lifted her eyebrows--amused at the sudden despair.