He had a genius for discovering his right niche, and he had been
fortunate enough to light upon exactly the place that appealed to him. It
would not have suited everybody. It was a long low house, made of three
fishermen's cottages thrown into one, built so close to the edge of the
cliff that it seemed like a sea-bird's nest, with windows overlooking the
channel and the harbour, and a strip of stony garden behind. Inside, the
accommodation was somewhat cramped, but the rooms, if small, were quaint,
with an old-fashioned air about the panelled parlour and raftered dining-
room that suggested bygone days of smugglers and privateers. Below, in a
nook of the cliff, stood an old sail-shed, which Mr. Castleton had turned
into his studio. The big new skylight had only just been fitted into the
roof, and the stove which was to heat it during the winter was still at
Durracombe station waiting for the carrier to fetch it, but canvases were
already hung round the walls, the throne was erected and the big easel
placed in position, and an old fisherman, with weather-beaten countenance
and picturesque stained jersey, sat every morning for his portrait.
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