Bram has not felt so nervous since the moment he disembarked onto the harbor at Mombasa. His stomach churns, and the bullet wound in his shoulder sets up its familiar ache. He finds he is afraid, not so much of failing as an artist, of remaining penniless and obscure, but of failing the subjects of his paintings. He has kept them to himself all these years, until he finally found the courage to venture out with them. Now he is fearful, so that he regrets exposing them to what might be hostile viewers. And then there is Lilith to think about. Having finally summoned the courage to send her an invitation he has suffered agonies ever since.

Will she come? She did not send word, did not respond to my invitation. And if she does not come, will it be because she no longer cares for me or because she cares too much? Too much for a woman about to be married to someone else. And if she does come, how will she judge my work? How will she judge me? Have I a chance of winning her back? The smallest chance?

At last people begin to arrive. Some are keen followers of art. Some are there to be seen to be there. Others might hope there is money to be made from this new artist. Others still had nothing better to occupy them this Friday evening. Soon the gallery is so crowded Bram wonders anyone can actually see the paintings at all. The wine is disappearing fast, and as it does so the noise rises. And it is a cheerful noise, full of praise and compliments. The mood of excitement and approval is unmistakable. Dr. Travis is beaming. He grabs Bram’s arm as he rushes past.

“You are a success, Mr. Cardale, as I knew you would be. Yes, a very great success!”

Bram feels almost as pleased for the gallery owner as he does for himself.

There is a commotion at the front door which can only herald the arrival of Mangan and his party. The artist’s resonant voice carries even to the inner room, as he enthusiastically praises the paintings on show.

“Genius!” he declares to anyone within range. “A natural talent. A painter for our times, of our time. The perfect chronicler of these cruel years. Such pathos! Such insight!”