No unperverted mind who had the courage to face the mysterious wealth of solitude, had seen promising harvests choked by the drifting sand, could fail to understand the picture. It was painted with inspiration and talent; the colouring was the result of the prevailing mood, the mood was not engendered by the colouring.
"You must have something in the foreground," persisted Lundell. "Take my advice."
"Rubbish!" replied Sellén.
"Do what I tell you, and don't be a fool, otherwise you won't sell. Paint in a figure; a girl by preference; I'll help you if you don't know how to do it. Look here...."
"None of your tricks! What's the good of petticoats in a high wind? You're mad on petticoats!"
"Very well, do as you like," replied Lundell, a little hurt by the reference to one of his weakest points. "But instead of those grey gulls you should have painted storks. Nobody can tell what sort of birds these are. Picture the red storks' legs against the dark cloud! What a contrast!"
"You don't understand!"
Sellén was not clever in stating his motives, but he was sure of his points and his sound instincts led him safely past all errors.
"You won't sell," Lundell began again; his friend's financial position worried him.
"Well, I shall live somehow in spite of it. Have I ever sold anything? Am I the worse for it? Do you think I don't know that I should sell if I painted like everybody else? Do you think I can't paint as badly as everybody else? I just don't want to!"