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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Between Friends
+
+Author: Robert W. Chambers
+
+Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8441]
+Posting Date: July 30, 2009
+Last Updated: November 3, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN FRIENDS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andre Boutin-Maloney
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+BETWEEN FRIENDS
+
+By Robert W. Chambers
+
+
+1914
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+Like a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and lies down; lying
+there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-calls, and the
+breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscurity of himself.
+
+Through the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cringed his
+bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except the automatic
+pulses which never cease.
+
+Sometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world lies in
+ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.
+
+The things that men live through--and live!
+
+But no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.
+
+He had become very lean by the time it was all over. Gray glinted on his
+temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished as far as
+he was concerned.
+
+An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many
+years. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.
+
+But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had so
+long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange
+and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or
+less--little excursions from the dim privacy of mind and soul--and he
+found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the world once
+more.
+
+Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene
+continued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilder’s
+suggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becoming slyly
+impudent.
+
+“And listen to me, Guilder. What the devil’s a woman between friends?”
+ argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. “You take my best
+girl away from me--”
+
+“But I don’t,” remarked his partner dryly.
+
+“For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell? No. I
+merely thank you. Why? Because I don’t want her if you can get her away.
+That,” he added, with satisfaction, “is philosophy. Isn’t it, Drene?”
+
+Guilder intervened pleasantly:
+
+“I don’t think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I’m sure
+I’m not. Shut up, please.”
+
+Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out of a
+round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was modifying.
+
+Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which
+revolved with a rusty squeak.
+
+“If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman the
+world--” began Quair.
+
+“But we don’t,” interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar to
+his negative character.
+
+“Anyway,” insisted Quair, “here’s what I think of ‘em--”
+
+“My model, yonder,” said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, “happens
+to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the
+development of your rather tiresome theory.”
+
+The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke, stretched
+her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning glance at
+Drene.
+
+“All right; rest a bit,” said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he
+was pinching over the sketch before him.
+
+He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on
+a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into the
+stem, reflectively.
+
+Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had been
+born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over to
+examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had invited.
+
+Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over
+also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it
+belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe.
+
+After a silence:
+
+“It’s all right,” said Guilder.
+
+Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is true,
+however, that, except for Guilder’s habitual restraint, the celebrated
+firm of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyantly, and
+to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.
+
+“She’s some girl,” added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure,
+and then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on
+the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched
+in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.
+
+“Carpeaux and his eternal group--it’s the murderous but inevitable
+standard of comparison,” mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the
+photograph on the wall.
+
+“Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady,” insisted Quair flippantly;
+and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once or twice
+the two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the girl’s light,
+untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive to Quair’s
+wit. Perhaps Quair’s inheritance had been humor, but to some it seemed
+perilously akin to mother-wit.
+
+The pockets of Guilder’s loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with linen
+tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over these for
+a while, semi-conscious of Quair’s bantering voice and the girl’s easily
+provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:
+
+“All right, Guilder,” said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated
+architects prepared to evacuate the studio--Quair exhibiting symptoms of
+incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best.
+
+“Drop in on me at the office some time,” he suggested to the youthful
+model, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction.
+
+“For luncheon or dinner?” retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
+
+“You may stay to breakfast also--”
+
+“Oh, come on,” drawled Guilder, taking his colleague’s elbow.
+
+The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then
+celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
+
+For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on
+neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the
+dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the
+squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at intervals.
+
+The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand, and
+mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to the
+chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always seemed
+inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her voice, if
+untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered Drene, nor,
+until the last few days, had he even particularly noticed her blithe
+trilling--as a man a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware of the wild
+birds’ gay irrelevancy along the way.
+
+He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind that
+the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
+
+As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint blue
+of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl’s careless singing, made for his
+dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.
+
+“May I rest?” she asked at length.
+
+“Certainly, if it’s necessary.”
+
+“I’ve brought my lunch. It’s twelve,” she explained.
+
+He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with slight
+irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to descend.
+
+After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for that,
+and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important to either
+species.
+
+He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said
+something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was
+holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.
+
+When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the
+offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly mechanical
+smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.
+
+“Why don’t you ever eat luncheon?” she asked.
+
+“Why should I?” he replied, preoccupied.
+
+“It’s bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin.”
+
+“Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?” he asked,
+absently.
+
+“Won’t you please take this sandwich?”
+
+Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting
+attention again.
+
+“Why the devil do you want me to eat?” he inquired, fishing out his
+empty pipe and filling it.
+
+“You smoke too much. It’s bad for you. It will do very queer things to
+the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead of eating
+it.”
+
+He yawned.
+
+“Is that so?” he said.
+
+“Certainly it’s so. Please take this sandwich.”
+
+He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things and
+the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the fingers, placed
+the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as though slightly
+disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe from his left
+hand and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseated herself on
+the lounge beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, she became even more
+uncertain concerning the result of what she had done, and began to view
+with rising alarm the steady gray eyes that were so silently inspecting
+her.
+
+But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself,
+curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his
+hand, then gravely tasted it.
+
+“This will doubtless give me indigestion,” he remarked. “Why, Cecile, do
+you squander your wages on nourishment for me?”
+
+“It cost only five cents.”
+
+“But why present five cents to me?” “I gave ten to a beggar this
+morning.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Was he grateful?”
+
+“He seemed to be.”
+
+“This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I’ll not be
+very grateful to you.” But he continued eating.
+
+“‘The woman tempted me,’” she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
+
+After a moment’s survey of her:
+
+“You’re one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that
+throng this town and occasionally flit through this profession--aren’t
+you?”
+
+“Am I?”
+
+“Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you’re one of the
+surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but you
+appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywhere--a pretty
+sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary flash like a
+golden moat afloat in sunshine--and what then?”
+
+She laughed.
+
+“What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you turn
+into?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“You go somewhere, don’t you? You change into something, don’t you? What
+happens to you, petite Cigale?”
+
+“When?”
+
+“When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes.”
+
+“I don’t know, Mr. Drene.” She broke her chocolate cake into halves and
+laid one on his knee.
+
+“Thanks for further temptation,” he said grimly.
+
+“You are welcome. It’s good, isn’t it?”
+
+“Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him.”
+
+She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake,
+with her eyes still fixed on him.
+
+Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered
+absently elsewhere.
+
+“You think a great deal, don’t you?” she remarked.
+
+“Don’t you?”
+
+“I try not to--too much.”
+
+“What?” he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
+
+She shrugged her shoulders:
+
+“What’s the advantage of thinking?”
+
+He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish
+eyes, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged as
+usual--was wandering--when she sighed, very lightly, so that he scarcely
+heard it--merely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that, as usual,
+there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicinity, and
+that he lacked the interest to listen to it.
+
+“Thinking,” she said, “is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishment
+to a troubled one. So I try not to.”
+
+It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had
+uttered an unconscious epigram.
+
+“It sounded like somebody--probably Montaigne. Was it?” he inquired.
+
+“I don’t know what you mean.”
+
+“Oh. Then it wasn’t. You’re a funny little girl, aren’t you?”
+
+“Yes, rather.”
+
+“On purpose?”
+
+“Yes, sometimes.”
+
+He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intelligent
+perception of his not too civil badinage.
+
+“And sometimes,” he went on, “you’re funny when you don’t intend to be.”
+
+“You are, too, Mr. Drene.”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Didn’t you know it?”
+
+A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
+
+“No,” he said, “I didn’t know it.”
+
+“But you are. For instance, you don’t walk; you stalk. You do what
+novelists make their gloomy heroes do--you stride. It’s rather funny.”
+
+“Really. And do you find my movements comic?”
+
+She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youthful
+laugh:
+
+“You are really very dramatic--a perfect story-book man. But, you know,
+sometimes they are funny when the author doesn’t intend them to be....
+Please don’t be angry.”
+
+Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a
+loss to understand--unless there lurked under that impudence a trace of
+unflattering truth.
+
+As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of
+self-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; that
+for a while--a long while--a space of time he could not at the moment
+conveniently compute--he had been playing a role merely because he had
+become accustomed to it.
+
+Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that
+part. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy
+had really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged
+from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten
+that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine
+might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.
+
+Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her
+eye--and found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
+
+“You’re quite right,” he said, smiling easily and naturally; “I am
+unintentionally funny. And I really didn’t know it--didn’t suspect
+it--until this moment.”
+
+“Oh,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean--I know you are often unhappy--”
+
+“Nonsense!”
+
+“You are! Anybody can see--and you really do not seem to be very old,
+either--when you smile--”
+
+“I’m not very old,” he said, amused. “I’m not unhappy, either. If I ever
+was, the truth is that I’ve almost forgotten by this time what it was
+all about--”
+
+“A woman,” she quoted, “between friends”--and checked herself,
+frightened that she had dared interpret Quair’s malice.
+
+He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his
+visage.
+
+“Oh,” she faltered, “I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry
+for you so long--”
+
+“Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?”
+
+“It’s generally supposed. I don’t know anything more than that. But I’ve
+been--sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing,” she said under her breath.
+
+“Is it?” he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
+
+“Don’t you think so?”
+
+“I have not thought of it that way, recently.... I haven’t thought
+about it at all--for some years.... Have you?” he added, trying to speak
+gravely.
+
+“Oh, yes. I have thought of it,” she admitted.
+
+“And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?”
+
+“Yes, it is.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor is
+always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful. It
+usually finishes us--you know.”
+
+“Are you in love?” he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
+
+“I could be. I know that much.” She went to the sink, turned on the
+water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking about
+for a towel.
+
+“I’ll get you one,” he said. When he brought it, she laughed and held
+out her hands to be dried.
+
+“Do you think you are a Sultana?” he inquired, draping the towel across
+her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
+
+“I thought perhaps you’d dry them,” she said sweetly.
+
+“Not in the business,” he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
+
+Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much in
+demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of the
+Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
+
+Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each separate,
+slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of her hair--“a
+miracle of silk and sunshine,” as Quair had whispered to her. That same
+hair, also, was very popular among painters.
+
+It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
+
+“Are you ready?” grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.
+
+She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
+attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
+unusually lovely ensemble.
+
+She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
+variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine feeling,
+too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental, explosive,
+insinuating--the entire gamut.
+
+She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps, yet
+quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with her own
+curiosity.
+
+She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had
+not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at intervals,
+ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as an excuse, as
+a reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences threatened no
+embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.
+
+She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely
+untempted.
+
+When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
+artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast for
+a role which included singing and dancing.
+
+On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had
+dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her
+professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness confronting
+her.
+
+As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his busy
+hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this day
+had not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From the
+very beginning of their business relations he had remained merely her
+employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, when not
+working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to know him any
+better than when she first laid eyes on him.
+
+Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid,
+sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity
+concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirring
+him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, one way
+or the other.
+
+Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd to
+her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usually
+became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all of
+camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless, professional
+sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the kindly essence of
+personal interest on his part.
+
+He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and
+good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them
+seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too civil
+badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.
+
+He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have thought
+her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for her.
+
+“Do you think me pretty?” she had asked one day, saucily invading one of
+his yawning silences.
+
+“I think you’re pretty good,” he replied, “as a model. You’d be quite
+perfect if you were also deaf and dumb.”
+
+That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight heat
+in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childish
+amazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all that
+morning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entirely
+gratifying to him.
+
+“May I rest?”
+
+“If it’s necessary.”
+
+She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood
+looking at his work.
+
+“Do you want to know my opinion?” she asked.
+
+“Yes,” he said, with unexpected urbanity; “if you are clever enough to
+have an opinion. What is it?”
+
+She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with
+deliberation:
+
+“In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an
+entirely spontaneous and charming creation.”
+
+“What!” he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her opinion,
+and with surprise at her mode of expressing it.
+
+“It’s quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no
+study; it is pure creation.”
+
+He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an
+average and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.
+
+“As though,” she continued, “you had laid aside childish things.”
+
+“What?” he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expression.
+
+“Academic precision and the respectable excellencies of-the-usual;--you
+have put away childish things and become a man.”
+
+“Where did you hear that?” he said bluntly.
+
+“I heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not wholly
+uneducated, although your amiable question insinuates as much.”
+
+“I’m not unamiable. Only I didn’t suppose--”
+
+“Oh, you never have supposed anything concerning me. So why are you
+surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?”
+
+“I’m sorry--”
+
+“Listen to me. I’m not afraid of you any more. I’ve been afraid for two
+years. Now, I’m not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You know it. You
+didn’t know I knew it; you didn’t know I knew anything. And you didn’t
+care.”
+
+She sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.
+
+“You don’t care what I think, what I am, what interests I may have, what
+intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animates me; do
+you? You don’t care whether I am ignorant or educated, bad or good, ill
+or well--as long as it does not affect my posing for you; whether I am
+happy or unhappy, whether I--”
+
+“For Heaven’s sake--”
+
+“But you don’t care!... Do you?”
+
+He was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.
+
+After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass and
+pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.
+
+“It’s five o’clock, you know, Drene.”
+
+“Yes, certainly.”
+
+“Do you want me to-morrow?”
+
+“Yes. Yes, of course.”
+
+“You are not offended?”
+
+He did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question in a
+childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And looking down
+into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.
+
+“You little villain!” he said; and caught her wrists. “A lot you care
+whether I am offended!”
+
+She looked away from him, turning her profile. Her expression was
+inscrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague laugh.
+
+“You should have let me alone,” he said.
+
+“‘The woman tempted me,’” she repeated, still looking away from him. He
+said nothing.
+
+“Good night,” she nodded, and turned toward the door.
+
+He went with her, falling into step beside her. One arm slipped around
+her waist as they entered the hallway. They walked slowly to the door.
+He unlatched it, hesitated; she moved one foot forward, and he took a
+step at the same time which brought her across his path so closely that
+contact was unavoidable. And he kissed her.
+
+“Oh,” she said. “So you are human after all! I often wondered.”
+
+She looked up, trying to laugh, but could not seem to take it as coolly
+as she might have wished to.
+
+“Not that a kiss is very important in these days,” she continued, “yet
+it might interest you to hear that a friend of yours rather fancies
+me. He wouldn’t like you to do it. But--” She lifted her blue eyes with
+faint malice--“What is a woman between friends?”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“Jack Graylock.”
+
+Drene remained motionless.
+
+“I haven’t encouraged him,” she said. “Perhaps that is why.”
+
+“Why he fancies you?”
+
+“Why he asked me to marry him. It was the only thing he had not asked.”
+
+“He asked that?”
+
+“After he realized it was the only way, I suppose,” she said coolly.
+Drene took her into his arms and kissed her deliberately on the mouth.
+Looking up at him she said: “After all, he is your friend, isn’t he?”
+
+“A friend of many years. But, as you say, what is a woman between
+friends?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said the girl. And, still clasped in his arms, she bent
+her head, thoughtfully, considering the question.
+
+And as though she had come to some final conclusion, she raised her
+head, lifted her eyes slowly, and her lips, to the man whose arms
+enfolded her. It was her answer to his question, and her own.
+
+When she had gone, he went back and stood again by the great window,
+watching the cote on a neighboring roof, where the pigeons were
+strutting and coquetting in the last rays of the western sun.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+When she came again to the studio, she was different, subdued, evading,
+avoiding, smiling a little in her flushed diffidence at his gay ease of
+manner--or assumption of both ease and gaiety.
+
+He was inclined to rally her, tease her, but her reticence was not all
+embarrassment. The lightest contact, the slightest caress from him,
+added a seriousness to her face, making it very lovely under its
+heightened color, and strangely childlike.
+
+Model and master they would have remained no longer had it been for him
+to say, he desiring now to make it a favor and concession on her part to
+aid him professionally, she gravely insisting on professionalism as the
+basis of whatever entente might develop between them, as well as the
+only avowed excuse for her presence there alone with him.
+
+“Please. It’s respectable,” she insisted her agreeable, modulated voice.
+“I had rather the reason for my coming here be business--whatever else
+happens.”
+
+“What has happened,” he said, balancing a handful of wet clay in
+one hand and looking laughingly up at her, where she stood on the
+model-stand, “is that a pretty girl strolled in here one day and held
+up a mirror to a solemn ass who was stalking theatrically through life.
+That solemn ass is very grateful for the glimpse he had of himself. He
+behaved gratefully, didn’t he?”
+
+“Very,” she said with a forced smile.
+
+“Do you object to the manner in which he expressed his gratitude?”
+
+She hung her head.
+
+“No,” she said.
+
+After a while she raised her eyes, her head still lowered. He was
+working, darkly absorbed as usual in the plastic mass under his fingers.
+
+She watched him curiously, not his hands, now, but his lean, intent
+face, striving to penetrate that masculine mask, trying to understand.
+Varying and odd reflections and emotions possessed her in turn, and
+passed--wonder, bewilderment at herself, at him; a slight sense of fear,
+then a brief and sudden access of shyness, succeeded by the by glow
+of an emotion new and strange and deep. And this, in turn, by vague
+bewilderment again, in which there was both a hint of fear, and a tinge
+of something exquisite.
+
+Within herself she was dimly conscious that a certain gaiety, an
+irresponsibility and lightness had died out in her, perhaps permanently,
+yet leaving no void. What it was that replaced these she could not
+name--she only was conscious that if these had been subdued by a newer
+knowledge, with a newer seriousness, this unaccustomed gravity had left
+her heart no less tender, and had deepened her capacity for emotion
+to depths as profound and unexplored as the sudden mystery of their
+discovery by herself.
+
+Always, now, while she posed, she was looking at him with a still
+intentness, as though he really wore a mask and she, breathlessly
+vigilant, watched for the moment when he might forget and lift it.
+
+But during the weeks that followed, if the mask were indeed only the
+steady preoccupation that his visage wore, she seemed to learn nothing
+more about him when his features lost their dark absorption and he
+caught her eye and smiled. No, the smile revealed nothing except another
+mask under the more serious cast of concentration--only another
+disguise that covered whatever this man might truly be deeper down--this
+masculine and unknown invader of frontiers surrendered ere she had
+understood they were even besieged.
+
+And during these weeks in early spring their characteristics, even
+characters, seemed to have shifted curiously and become reversed; his
+was now the light, irresponsible, half-mocking badinage--almost boyishly
+boisterous at times, as, for instance, when he stepped forward after the
+pose and swung her laughingly from the model-platform to her corner on
+the sofa.
+
+“You pretty and clever little thing,” he said, “why are you becoming so
+serious and absent-minded?”
+
+“Am I becoming so?”
+
+“You are. You oughtn’t to: you’ve made a new and completely different
+man of me.”
+
+As though that were an admirable achievement, or even of any particular
+importance. And yet she seemed to think it was both of these when,
+resting against him, within the circle of his arm, still shy and silent
+under the breathless poignancy of an emotion which ever seemed to sound
+within her depths unsuspected.
+
+But when he said that she had made a new and completely different man of
+him, she remembered his low-voiced when that change impended as he held
+her by her wrists a moment, then dropped them. He had said, half to
+himself: “You should have let me alone!”
+
+Sometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out for luncheon
+realizing they would never have been seated together in a restaurant had
+she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let him alone; she
+knew that. She tried to wish that she had--tried to regret everything,
+anything; and could not, even when within her the faint sense of alarm
+awoke amid the softly unchangeable unreality of these last six weeks of
+spring.
+
+Was this then really love?--this drifting through alternating dreams
+of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes
+of fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths of
+cloud?
+
+She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only
+that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.
+
+She was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dimly
+understood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was missing--her
+conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died? Were the little,
+inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its disintegration? Or its
+immortal vitality?
+
+Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of its
+loss--dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember nothing to
+be sorry for. And there was so much.
+
+Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and her,
+amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters.
+
+That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was
+a nine days’ gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was
+forgotten--as are all wonders--in nine days.
+
+Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the
+tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman’s name, and a man’s--Drene’s
+closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the busy--not that
+the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it quickly,
+having other matters to think about.
+
+Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own condescending
+advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously inflammable attentions
+elsewhere.
+
+He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and
+Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his dapper
+confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first bored, grew
+irritable.
+
+“What are you talking about?” he said sharply.
+
+“I’m talking about Cecile White,” continued Quair, looking rather oddly
+at the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. “I didn’t suppose
+you could be interested in any woman--not that I mind your interfering
+with any little affair between Cecile and me--”
+
+“There wasn’t any.”
+
+“I beg your pardon, Drene--”
+
+“There wasn’t any!” repeated Drene, with curt contempt. “Don’t talk
+about her, anyway.”
+
+“You mean I’m not to talk about a common artist’s model--”
+
+“Not that way.”
+
+“Oh. Is she yours?”
+
+“She isn’t anybody’s, I fancy. Therefore, let her alone, or I’ll throw
+you out of doors.”
+
+Quair said to Guilder after they had departed:
+
+“Fancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious basis!
+He’s doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what’s in it for her?”
+
+“Perhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency.”
+
+“Everybody is decent enough to her as far as I know.”
+
+“Including yourself?”
+
+“Certainly, including myself,” retorted Quair, adding naively: “Besides,
+I knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted.”
+
+“Yet you tried it,” mused Guilder, entering his big touring car and
+depositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his own
+ponderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the chauffeur,
+then:
+
+“Tried nothing,” he said. “A little chaff, that’s all. When it comes to
+a man like Jack Graylock going so far as to ask her to marry him, good
+night, nurse! Nothing doing, even for me.”
+
+“Even for you,” repeated Guilder in his moderate and always modulated
+voice. “Well, if she’s escaped you and Graylock, she’s beyond any danger
+from Drene, I fancy.”
+
+Quair smiled appreciatively, as though a delicate compliment had been
+offered him. Several times on the way to call on Graylock he insisted on
+stopping the car at as many celebrated cafes. Guilder patiently awaited
+him in the car and each time Quair emerged from the cafe bar a little
+more flushed and a trifle jauntier than when he had entered.
+
+He was a man so perfectly attired and so scrupulously fastidious about
+his person that Guilder often speculated as to just why Quair always
+seemed to him a trifle soiled.
+
+Now, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in the
+face, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little, pinched
+nostrils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior member of
+the firm as though the junior member were physically unclean.
+
+“That’s about ten drinks since luncheon,” he remarked, as the car rolled
+on down Fifth Avenue.
+
+Quair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poked his
+gloved thumb:
+
+“You’re a merry old cock, aren’t you?” he inquired genially, “--like a
+pig’s wrist! If I hadn’t the drinking of the entire firm to do, who’d
+ever talk about Guilder and Quair, architects?”
+
+It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when
+“soused.” And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he was.
+
+Graylock received them in his office--a big, reckless-eyed, handsome
+man, with Broad Street written all over him and “danger” etched in every
+deepened line of his face.
+
+“Well, how about that business of mine?” he inquired. “It’s all right to
+keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match for highballs
+at the Ritz.”
+
+“I had to see Drene--that’s why we are late,” explained Guilder. “We’re
+ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you--”
+
+“Drene?” interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a
+curious and staring intensity. “Why drag Drene into an excuse?”
+
+“Because we went to his studio,” said Guilder. “Now about letting the
+contracts--”
+
+“Were you at Drene’s studio?”
+
+“Yes. He’s doing the groups for the new opera for us.”
+
+Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:
+
+“Neat little skirt he has up there--that White girl,” he remarked,
+seating himself on Graylock’s polished table.
+
+A dull flush stained Graylock’s cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned on
+Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two thin
+streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.
+
+“Some skirt,” he repeated. “And it looks as though old Drene had her
+number--”
+
+Guilder’s level voice interrupted:
+
+“The contracts are ready to be--”
+
+But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all the
+time at Quair, said slowly:
+
+“Drene isn’t that kind.... Is he?”
+
+“Our kind, you mean?” inquired Quair, with a malice so buried under
+flippancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with Graylock.
+Which amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was not
+sufficient. He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.
+
+“Drene,” he said, “is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled on
+their necks--the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them after
+she’s turned down everything else they suggest.”
+
+Graylock’s square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed to grow even
+paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of this man’s record
+with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumors which connected
+him so seriously with Cecile White, swung his leg unconcernedly, where
+it dangled over the table’s edge, and smiled frankly and knowingly upon
+Graylock:
+
+“There’s always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn’t
+on the breakfast table. When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock,
+Providence has created a species of man who settles our bills.”
+
+He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two
+thin streams through his nose.
+
+“Maybe Drene may marry her himself. But--I don’t believe he’ll have
+to.... Now, about those contracts--” he affected a yawn, “--go on and
+tell him, Guilder,” he added, his words distorted by another yawn.
+
+He stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretched his
+arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had never moved a
+muscle.
+
+“I believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn’t you,
+Graylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well--my hat off to old Drene
+if he wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what’s a woman
+between friends?”
+
+And he nodded gaily at Graylock and sauntered leisurely to the window.
+
+And kept his back turned, fearful of exploding with laughter in the very
+face of the man who had been staring at him out of pale, unchanging eyes
+so steadily and so long.
+
+Guilder’s patient, bored, but moderate voice was raised once more:
+
+“In regard to the letting of these contracts--”
+
+But Graylock, staring at Quair’s back, neither heeded nor heard him, for
+his brain was still ringing with the mockery of Quair’s words--“What is
+a woman between friends?” And now, for the first time, he was beginning
+to understand what the answer might be.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had begun
+to miss her, after his own fashion--that is, he thought of her when not
+preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when unoccupied.
+
+And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and
+scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he could
+never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper, pocketed it, and
+went out to his dinner.
+
+But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters
+professional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which
+gradually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to see
+her at that particular time.
+
+Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to communicate
+with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering concentration
+which included himself and his career, as well as his work, seemed to
+obliterate even any memory of her existence.
+
+Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book, or
+duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and brain a
+faint pain became apparent--if it could still be called pain, this vague
+ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead years--and at such moments
+he thought of Graylock, and of another; and the partly paralyzed
+emotion, which memory of these two evoked, stirred him finally to think
+of Cecile.
+
+It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next day
+and continue with her what had been begun--an intimacy which depended
+upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct whispered was within
+his own control. But the next day found him at work; models of various
+types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came, posed, were paid, and
+departed; his studies for the groups in collaboration with Guilder and
+Quair were approaching the intensely interesting period--that stage of
+completion where composition has been determined upon and the excitement
+of developing the construction and the technical charm of modeling
+begins.
+
+And evening always found him physically tired and mentally satisfied--or
+perturbed--to the exclusion of such minor interests as life is
+made of--dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and a beloved
+profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room for these or
+thought of these.
+
+He ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteristic
+of creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples, and
+grayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid New
+York summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gaunt, silent,
+darkly absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air until some
+half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of a headache, set
+him in reluctant motion.
+
+He heard of Cecile now and then; Cosby had used her for a figure on
+a fountain destined to embellish the estate of a wealthy young man
+somewhere or other; Greer employed her for the central figure of
+Innocence in his lovely and springlike decoration for some Western
+public edifice. Quair had met her several times at Manhattan Beach with
+various and assorted wealthy young men.
+
+And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying on
+the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging inert
+to the floor above an evening paper fallen there.
+
+“Hello, Guilder,” he said, without rising, as the big architect shambled
+loosely through the open doorway.
+
+“How are you, Drene?”
+
+“All right. It’s hot.”
+
+“There’s not a breath of air. It looks like a thunder-storm in the
+west.”
+
+He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features with
+a damp handkerchief.
+
+“Drene,” he said, “a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a chapel to
+the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We’ve pinched the job. Can you
+do an altar piece?”
+
+“What sort?”
+
+“They want a Virgin. It’s to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
+It’s for women to repair to--under certain and natural circumstances.”
+
+“I’ve so much on hand--”
+
+“It’s only a single figure-barring the dove. Why don’t you do it?”
+
+“There are plenty of other men--”
+
+“They want you. There’ll be no difficulty about terms.”
+
+Drene said with a shrug:
+
+“Terms are coming to mean less and less to me, Guilder. It costs very
+little for me to live.” He turned his gray, tired face. “Look at this
+barn of a place; and go in there and look at my bedroom. I have no use
+for what are known as necessities.”
+
+“Still, terms are terms--”
+
+“Oh, yes. A truck may run over me. Even at that, I’ve enough to live
+life out as I am living it here--between these empty walls--and that
+expanse of glass overhead. That’s about all life holds for me--a sheet
+of glass and four empty walls--and a fistfull of wet clay.”
+
+“Are you a trifle morbid, Drene?”
+
+“I’m not by any means; I merely prefer to live this way. I have
+sufficient means to live otherwise if I wish. But this is enough of the
+world to suit me, Guilder--and I can go to a noisy restaurant to eat in
+when I’m so inclined--” He laughed a rather mirthless laugh and glanced
+up, catching a peculiar expression in Guilder’s eyes.
+
+“You’re thinking,” said Drene coolly, “what a god I once set up on the
+altar of domesticity. I used to talk a lot once, didn’t I?--a hell of
+a clamor I made in eulogy of the domestic virtues. Well, only idiots
+retain the same opinions longer than twenty-four hours. Fixity is
+imbecility; the inconstant alone progress; dissatisfaction is only a
+synonym for intelligence; contentment translated means stagnation..... I
+have changed my opinion concerning the virtues of domesticity.”
+
+Guilder said, in his even, moderate voice:
+
+“Your logic is weird, Drene: in one breath you say you have changed your
+opinion; in another that you are content; in another that contentment is
+the fixedness of imbecility--”
+
+Drene, reddening slightly, half rose on one elbow from his couch:
+
+“What I meant was that I change in my convictions from day to day,
+without reproaching myself with inconstancy. What I believed with all my
+heart to be sacred yesterday I find a barrier to-day; and push it aside
+and go on.”
+
+“Toward what?”
+
+“I go on, that’s all I know--toward sanctuary.”
+
+“You mean professionally.”
+
+“In every way--ethically--spiritually. The gods of yesterday, too, were
+very real--yesterday.”
+
+“Drene, a man may change and progress on his way toward what never
+changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in the beginning;
+they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have no goal.”
+
+“Is there a goal?”
+
+“Where are you going, then?”
+
+“Just on.”
+
+“In your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors all
+journey.”
+
+“Perfection?”
+
+Guilder nodded.
+
+“But,” smiled Drene, “no two sculptors ever see it alike.”
+
+“It is still Perfection. It is still the goal to the color-blind and
+normal alike, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it. That
+is its only importance; it is The Goal..... In things spiritual the same
+obtains--whether one’s vision embraces Nirvana, or the Algonquin Ocean
+of Light, or a pallid Christ half hidden in floating clouds--Drene,
+it is all one, all one. It is not the Goal that changes; only our
+intelligence concerning its existence and its immortality.”
+
+Drene lay looking at him:
+
+“You never knew pain--real pain, did you? The world never ended for you,
+did it?”
+
+“In one manner or another we all must be reborn before we can progress.”
+
+“That is a cant phrase.”
+
+“No; there’s truth under the cant. Under all the sleek, smooth, canty
+phrases of ecclesiastic proverb, precept, axiom, and lore, there is
+truth worth the sifting out.”
+
+“You are welcome to think so, Guilder.”
+
+“You also could come to no other conclusion if you took the trouble to
+investigate.”
+
+Drene smiled:
+
+“Morals are no more than folk-ways--merely mental condition consequent
+upon custom. Spiritual beliefs are radically dependant upon folkways
+and the resultant physical and mental condition of the human brain which
+creates everything that has been and that is to be.”
+
+“Physiology has proven that no idea, no thought, ever originated within
+the concrete and physical brain.”
+
+“I’ve read of those experiments.”
+
+“Then you can’t ignore a conclusion.”
+
+“I haven’t reached a conclusion. Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs.”
+
+“That’s all that’s necessary,” said Guilder, gravely, “--to entertain
+some belief, temporary or final.” He smiled slightly down at Drene’s
+drawn, gray visage.
+
+“You and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we have never
+before talked this way. I did not feel at liberty to assume any intimacy
+with you, even when I wanted to, even when--when you were in trouble--”
+ He hesitated.
+
+“Go on,” grunted the other. “I’m out of trouble now.”
+
+“I just--it’s a whimsical notion--no, it’s a belief;--I just wanted to
+tell you one or two things concerning my own beliefs--”
+
+“Temporary?”
+
+“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter; they are beliefs. And this is one: all
+physical and mental ills are created only by our own minds--”
+
+“Christian Science?” sneered Drene.
+
+“Call it what you like,” said Guilder serenely. “And call this what you
+like: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief true in
+every detail after death.”
+
+“What do you call that?” demanded Drene, amused.
+
+“God knows. It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal. I seem to be
+journeying toward it without more obstacles and more embarrassments to
+encounter than confront the wayfarer who professes any other creed.”
+
+After a while Drene sat up on his couch:
+
+“How did all this conversation start?” he asked uneasily.
+
+“It was about the Virgin for that chapel we are going to do..... That’s
+part of my belief: those who pray for her intercession will find
+her after death, interceding--” he smiled, “--if any intercession be
+necessary between us and Him who made us.”
+
+“And those unlisted millions who importune Mohammed and Buddha?”
+
+“They shall find Mohammed and Buddha, who importune them worthily.”
+
+“And--Christ?”
+
+“He bears that name also--He!”
+
+“Oh! And so, spiritually as well as artistically, you believe in the
+Virgin?”
+
+“You also can make a better Virgin if you believe in her otherwise than
+esthetically.”
+
+Drene gazed at him incredulously, then, with a shrug:
+
+“When do you want this thing started?”
+
+“Now.”
+
+“I can’t take it on now.”
+
+“I want a sketch pretty soon--the composition. You can have a model of
+the chapel to--morrow. We went on with it as a speculation. Now we’ve
+clinched the thing. When shall I send it up from the office?”
+
+“I’ll look it over, but--”
+
+“And,” interrupted Guilder, “you had better get that Miss White for the
+Virgin--before she goes off somewhere out of reach.”
+
+Drene looked up somberly:
+
+“I haven’t kept in touch with her. I don’t know what her engagements may
+be.”
+
+“One of her engagements just now seems to be to go about with Graylock,”
+ said Guilder.
+
+Drene flushed, but said nothing.
+
+“If he marries her,” added Guilder, “as it’s generally understood he
+is trying to, the best sculptor’s model in town is out of the question.
+Better secure her now.”
+
+“He wants to marry her?” repeated Drene, in a curiously still voice.
+
+“He’s mad about her. He’s abject. It’s no secret among his friends. Men
+like that--and of that age--sometimes arrive at such a terminal--men
+with Graylock’s record sometimes get theirs. She has given him a run,
+believe me, and he’s brought up with a crash against a stone wall. He is
+lying there all doubled up at her feet like a rabbit with a broken back.
+There was nothing left for him to do but lie there. He’s lying there
+still, with one of her little feet on his bull neck. All the town knows
+it.”
+
+“He wants to marry her,” repeated Drene, as though to himself.
+
+“She may not take him at that. They’re queer--some women. I suppose
+she’d jump at it if she were not straight. But there’s another thing--”
+ Guilder looked curiously at Drene. “Some people think she’s rather crazy
+about you.”
+
+Drene gazed into space.
+
+“But that wouldn’t hurt her,” added Guilder, in his calm, pleasant
+voice. “She’s a straight little thing--white and straight. She could
+come to no harm through a man like you.”
+
+Drene continued to stare at space.
+
+“So,” continued the other, confident, “when she recovers from a natural
+and childlike infatuation for you she’ll marry somebody... Possibly even
+such a man as Graylock might make her happy. You can’t ever tell about
+such men at the eleventh hour.”
+
+Drene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his face.
+
+“Aren’t you pretty damned charitable?”
+
+“Charitable? Well, I--I’m so inclined, I fancy.”
+
+“You’d be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?”
+
+“I did not say so. I am no judge of men. No man knows enough to condemn
+souls.”
+
+Drene looked at him:
+
+“Well, I’ll tell you something. I know enough to do it. I had rather
+damn my soul--and hers, too--than see her marry the man you have named.
+It would be worth it to me.”
+
+After a strained silence, Guilder said:
+
+“There is a mode of dealing with those who have injured you, which is
+radically different--”
+
+“I deal with such people in my own fashion!”
+
+“But, after all, the infamy is Graylock’s. Why oblige him by sharing it
+with him?”
+
+“Do you know what he did to me and mine?”
+
+“A few of us know,” said Guilder, gently, “--your old friends.”
+
+There came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene’s eyes:
+
+“I’ll take your commission for that altar piece,” he said.
+
+“What is it? An Annunciation?”
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by the
+middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine until five;
+every evening they had dined together at the seashore or other suburban
+and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer entertainment in
+town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings together in his studio,
+chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes discussing he work in hand
+or other subjects of he moment, even topics covering a wider and more
+varied range than he had ever before discussed with any woman.
+
+He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had
+been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to have
+become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times, smoothed
+out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.
+
+If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety had
+been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something duller,
+his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in her surprised
+and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and delightful
+transfiguration.
+
+At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from him,
+from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of absence;
+and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little, as always,
+when in contact with him.
+
+But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
+reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her pretty
+hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and released it.
+
+From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for
+a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the
+night’s parting.
+
+Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease with
+him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of isolation
+to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.
+
+Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man, such
+a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such kindness, such
+patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such virile sense and
+sympathy.
+
+And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
+disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
+
+He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship, wholly,
+heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the moment;
+and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in the same
+fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself to him by
+degrees as their comradeship became deliciously unembarrassed.
+
+He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat
+there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle and
+fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and sometimes
+she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which she was
+embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in the
+stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite, as
+though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into her
+half-dreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she opened her
+eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.
+
+But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window from
+the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on whimpering
+wings for a moment and then sheered out into the sunlight.
+
+They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
+particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was
+that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he
+not interrupting.
+
+Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something
+of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical career determined
+upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of
+destitution--the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter
+who employed models--not anything unusual, not even dramatic.
+
+He nodded as she ended:
+
+“Have you saved anything?”
+
+“A hundred dollars.”
+
+“That’s fine.”
+
+She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
+
+“You are thinking,” he said, “that youth is flying.”
+
+She smiled wistfully.
+
+“Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.”
+
+She nodded.
+
+“You could have married.”
+
+“Why?” she asked, troubled.
+
+“To obtain the means for a musical education.”
+
+She gazed at him in amazement, then: “I could go out on the street, too,
+as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful.”
+
+“Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,” he said.
+She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden
+table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond--Graylock’s
+light eyes riveted upon them both.
+
+“You know,” he said, under his breath, “that I shall not marry you.
+But--would you care to begin your studies again?”
+
+There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until
+the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her
+lip tremble.
+
+“I had not thought you meant to ask me--that. I do not quite understand
+what you mean.”
+
+“I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?”
+
+“I was not sure you cared--enough--”
+
+“Do you--for me?”
+
+“Before I say that I do--care for you--” she began, tremulously--“tell
+me that I have nothing to fear--”
+
+Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who
+stared back at him.
+
+Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
+beauty of her.
+
+“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Love is no more wonderful
+than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and
+not as strong.”
+
+“What!” she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.
+
+“And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I
+have, I have devised to you--in case I step out--suddenly--”
+
+He paused, hesitated, then:
+
+“Also I desire you to hear something else,” he went on. “This is the
+proper time for you to hear it, I think--now--to-night--”
+
+He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.
+
+“There was a woman,” he said--“She happened to be my wife. Also there
+was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward
+she died--abroad. I believe he was there at the time--Kept up a
+semblance--But he never married her.... And I do not intend to
+marry--you.”
+
+After a moment: “And that,” she whispered, “is why you once said to me
+that I should have let you alone.”
+
+“Did I say that to you?”
+
+“Yes.” She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: “But if you care
+for me--I do not regret that I did not let you alone.”
+
+“I shall not marry you.”
+
+Her lip trembled but she smiled.
+
+“That is nothing new to me,” she said. “Only one man has offered that.”
+
+“Why didn’t you take him?” he asked, with an ugly laugh.
+
+“I couldn’t. I cared for you.”
+
+“And now,” he said, “are you afraid of me?”
+
+“Yes--a little.”
+
+He leaned forward suddenly, “You’d better steer clear of me!” Her
+startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.
+
+“Fair warning!” he added: “look out for yourself.” Everything that was
+brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features
+so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised
+look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.
+
+“You’re taking chances from now on,” he said. “I told you once to let me
+alone. You’d better do it now. And--” he stared at the distant man--“I
+told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I’ve waited a long
+time to strike. Even now it isn’t in me to do it as I have meant to
+do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I’ll strike in the
+old-fashioned way, and end it--to-night.”
+
+Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with
+his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was
+doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in
+silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.
+
+It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the
+shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing
+his ghastly face.
+
+“Something snapped”--he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;--“I
+care very deeply for you. I--they’ll make over to you--what I have. You
+can study on it--live on it, modestly--”
+
+“W-what is the matter? Are you ill?” she stammered, white and
+frightened.
+
+But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep
+away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an
+opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.
+
+When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he
+thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in--leaving
+the door into the hallway open--and straight on across the room to his
+desk.
+
+He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still
+turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the
+threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and
+then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.
+
+And so they stood alone together after many years.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+Graylock looked at Drene’s heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in
+it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily enough:
+
+“I’d like to say a word or two--if you’ll give me time.” And, as Drene
+made no reply;--“You’re quite right: This business of ours should be
+finished one way or another. I can’t stand it any longer.”
+
+“In that case,” remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, “I may
+postpone it--to find out how much you can stand.” He dropped his right
+hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all the
+while:
+
+“What do you want here anyway?”
+
+“I fancy that you have already guessed.”
+
+“Maybe. All the same, what do you want?”--fumbling with his bulging
+pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.
+
+Graylock’s worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon: he
+stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa,
+his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.
+
+But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
+overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;--otherwise
+gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a
+narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.
+
+“It’s a long time, Drene.”
+
+Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
+
+Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
+armchair toward him and seated himself.
+
+“It’s many years,” repeated Graylock. “I expected you to do something
+before this.”
+
+“Were you uneasy?” sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that
+Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who
+deals a premature and useless blow.
+
+He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as
+though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock.
+
+“I suppose you’ll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came
+here,” said Graylock.
+
+“Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or
+do?”
+
+The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his
+knees.
+
+“Drene,” he said, in a low voice, “don’t strike at me through this young
+girl.”
+
+Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly.
+
+“Are you in love with her?”
+
+“Yes.... You know it.”
+
+Drene said, still laughing: “It’s the common rumor. You may imagine it
+amuses your friends--if you have any left.”
+
+Graylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great room:
+
+“Don’t harm her, Drene. It is not necessary. I shall never see her
+again--if that will content you.”
+
+Drene laughed: “I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I never saw
+her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... My wife. And
+when she died, still my wife. There was no relief--no relief.”
+
+Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands and
+stared at nothing:
+
+“I know,” he said. “I understand now. I am here to-night to pay the
+reckoning.”
+
+“You can’t pay it.”
+
+“No, not the whole score. There’s another bill, I suppose, waiting for
+me--somewhere. But I can settle my indebtedness to you--”
+
+“How?”
+
+“That’s up to you, Drene.”
+
+“How?” repeated Drene, violently.
+
+Graylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene’s sagging
+pocket: “That way if you like. Or,” he added, “There is a harder
+punishment.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“To give her up.”
+
+“Yes,” said Drene, “that is harder. But I can make it even harder than
+that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let you
+live through it.”
+
+He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and
+leisurely pushed the lever to “safe.”
+
+He said: “To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a lifer.
+You know what you are while you’re alive; maybe you’d forget if you were
+dead. I--”
+
+He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his knee;
+and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each other. And
+when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic.
+
+“If I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently.” He
+shot an ugly look at Graylock: “I don’t know about you, either. You’re a
+rat. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant. And in that
+case you’d get away--if it’s true that the eleventh hour is not too
+late.... If it’s true that Christ is merciful.... So I’ll take no
+chances of a getaway. You might fool me--one way or another--if you were
+dead.”
+
+Graylock lifted his head from his hands: “I don’t know how much of the
+other debt I’ve already paid, Drene. But I’ve paid heavily since I knew
+her--if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she cared for
+you, and when I realized that you meant to strike me through her--I have
+paid, heavily.... Yet, if you were honestly in love with her--”
+
+“Is that any of your damned business?”
+
+“She’s only a child--”
+
+“You rat! That’s what’s coming to you!”
+
+“If you say so. But what is coming to her, Drene?”
+
+“Continue to guess. But I know you. It’s yourself you’re sorry for and
+what you’ll have to endure--live through. That’s what you can’t stand,
+and remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will make earth
+a living hell for you; never a second, day or night, will you be able
+to forget--if you really do love her.... And I believe you do--I don’t
+understand how a thing like you can love--but it seems it can.”
+
+After a silence Graylock said: “You don’t care if you damn yourself?”
+
+“It’s worth it to me.”
+
+“Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as I
+am?” Drene’s gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in silence.
+
+“Don’t you care what you do to her?” asked Graylock, unsteadily. “It’s a
+viler business than that for which you are punishing me.”
+
+For a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on his knees.
+And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: “It’s bad enough either
+way for me, Drene. I’ll do what you wish in the matter. I’ll leave
+the country; I’ll stay; whichever you say. Or,” he said with a ghastly
+smile, “I’ll clean out that automatic for you to-night--if you’ll marry
+her.”
+
+Drene looked up, slowly:
+
+“What did you say?”
+
+“I said that I’d clean out your automatic for you--to-night--if you
+wish.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In my own rooms--if it is to be an accident.”
+
+“Do you offer--”
+
+“Yes; if you’ll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I’ll take your
+word.”
+
+“And then you’ll be out of your misery, you damned coward!”
+
+“God knows.... But I think not,” said Graylock, under his breath.
+
+Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it,
+considering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer noticing
+the other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the wall where a
+calendar hung.
+
+He stood for a while looking at it absently. After a few moments he
+stepped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then one by
+one tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the month marked
+December, Graylock watching him all the while.
+
+“I think it happened on Christmas,” remarked Drene turning toward the
+other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.
+
+Graylock’s head bent slightly.
+
+“Very well. Suppose about eleven o’clock on Christmas night you give
+your automatic a thorough cleaning.
+
+“If you say so.”
+
+“You have one?”
+
+“I shall buy one.”
+
+“Didn’t you come here armed?”
+
+“No.”
+
+Drene looked at him very intently. But Graylock had never been a liar.
+After a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the weapon under
+the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:
+
+“All right. You can go.”
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+He wrote to Cecile once:
+
+Hereafter keep clear of men like Graylock and like me. We’re both of a
+stripe--the same sort under our skins. I’ve known him all my life. It
+all depends upon the opportunity, the circumstances, and the woman. And,
+what is a woman between friends--between such friends as Graylock and I
+once were--or between the sort of friends we have now become? Keep clear
+of such men as we are. We were boys together.
+
+
+For a week or two he kept his door locked and lived on what the janitor
+provided for him, never going out of the studio at all.
+
+He did no work, although there were several unexecuted commissions
+awaiting his attention and a number of sketches, clay studies, and one
+marble standing around the studio in various stages of progress. The
+marble was the Annunciation. The head and throat and slender hands were
+completed, and one slim naked foot.
+
+Sometimes he wandered from one study to the next, vague-eyed, standing
+for a long time before each, staring, lost in thought. Sometimes, in the
+evening he read, choosing a book at random among the motley collection
+in a corner case--a dusty, soiled assortment of books, ephemeral novels
+of the moment, ponderous volumes which are in everybody’s library but
+which nobody reads, sets of histories, memoirs, essays, beautifully
+bound and once cared for, but now dirty from neglect--jetsam from a
+wrecked home.
+
+There had been a time when law, order and neatness formed the basis
+of Drene’s going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise,
+fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of beautiful
+things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol that suggested home and
+hearth and family.
+
+But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye,
+something else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaos,
+indifferent to all that had formerly been a part of him, a silent
+emotionless, burnt out thing, callous to all that he had once cared for.
+
+Yet something of what he had been must have remained latent within him
+for with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his clay and
+chiseled his marble; and there must have been in him something to
+express, for the beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had set him
+high among the highest in his profession.
+
+Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so
+that it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow sears,
+rendering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow remains under
+the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that is noble, hardening
+all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving a devil behind
+it--fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.
+
+Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was
+becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious of
+it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding that
+although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding, and very,
+very quiet.
+
+And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even
+himself--that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an instant
+by a young girl’s gaiety--and with a smile, half-responsive, on his own
+unaccustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same instant, that the
+man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly in love with her.
+
+And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and that
+there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and what
+perhaps was love.
+
+Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself still
+hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it possible?
+If he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he still strike and
+reach him through the woman for whose sake he, Graylock, was going to
+step out of things?
+
+That occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody who could
+tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether the soul
+survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, could a living
+man add anything to its torments for his enemy’s benefit?
+
+One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was
+feeling quite well.
+
+“Yes” said Drene, “I am well.”
+
+The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he
+mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own quarters
+in many weeks.
+
+Drene nodded: “I expect to go for a walk this evening.”
+
+But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,
+wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his days.
+
+What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep? Did
+he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever suspected
+him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled his final
+part of the bargain.
+
+For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock was
+thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is in good
+physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the very second
+how many seconds of life remain for him?
+
+Drene’s sick brain ached with the problem day and night.
+
+In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in imagination.
+
+Day after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night after
+night, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues at
+midday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see what
+expression this man wore, what was imprinted on his features;--obsessed
+by a desire to learn what he might be thinking--with death drawing
+nearer.
+
+But Drene, in the body, had never stirred from his own chilly room--a
+gaunt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, half-clothed, huddled all day in his
+chair brooding above his bitten nails, or flung starkly across his couch
+at night staring at the stars through the dirty crust of glass above.
+
+One night in December when the stars were all staring steadily back at
+him, and his thoughts were out somewhere in the darkness following his
+enemy, he heard somebody laughing in the room.
+
+For a while he lay very still, listening; but when he realized that the
+laughter was his own he sat up, pressing his temples between hot and
+trembling fingers.
+
+It seemed to silence the laughter: terror subsided to a tremulous
+apprehension--as though he had been on the verge of something horrible
+sinking into it for a moment--but had escaped.
+
+Again he found himself thinking of Graylock, and presently he laughed;
+then frightened, checked himself. But his fevered brain had been afire
+too long; he lay fighting with his thoughts to hold them in leash lest
+they slip out into the night like blood hounds on the trail of the man
+they had dogged so long.
+
+Trembling, terrified, he set his teeth in his bleeding lip, and clenched
+his gaunt fists: He could not hold his thoughts in leash; could not
+control the terrifying laughter; hatred blazed like hell-fire scorching
+the soul in him, searing his aching brain with flames which destroy.
+
+In the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the stars
+through the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the infernal
+flicker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a voice
+calling for help--his own voice--
+
+Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, striving to
+pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.
+
+Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio had
+dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holding his
+breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on the snowy
+foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upward slowly to
+the slim and child-like hands--
+
+“Oh, God!” he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.
+
+For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the
+heart were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he reeled
+forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eyes, he saw
+the child-like head bend toward him from the slender neck--saw that the
+eyes were faintly blue--
+
+“Mother of God!” he screamed, “my mind is dying--my mind is dying! ...
+We were boys, he and I.... Let God judge him.... Let him be judged...
+mercifully.... I am worse than he.... There is no hell. I have
+striven to fashion one--I have desired to send him thither--Mother of
+God--Cecile--”
+
+Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down
+close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold
+foot.
+
+“I am sick,” he rambled on--“and very tired.... We were boys together,
+Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him.... He was so
+handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do.... So young, and
+straight, and daring.... I would not harm him. Or you, Cecile.... Only
+I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left--from being
+badly hurt--It never got well. ... And now it is dying of its
+hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before it dies I do forgive him--and ask
+forgiveness--for Christ’s sake--”
+
+Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
+senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed,
+then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.
+
+“Cecile?” he said, distinctly.
+
+The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
+bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her
+throat.
+
+“Dearest?” he said, inquiringly.
+
+Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and
+laid her cheek on it, crying silently.
+
+As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall.
+At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.
+
+The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was
+moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent
+over him.
+
+“I want--Graylock,” he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing
+at him intently.
+
+“Graylock,” he repeated.
+
+“Not now,” she murmured, “not today. Rest for a while.”
+
+“Please,” he said, looking up at her trustfully--“Graylock. Now.”
+
+“When you are well--”
+
+“I am--well. Please, dear.”
+
+For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp
+hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his
+eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression,
+unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.
+
+So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was
+late. She went downstairs to the janitor’s quarters where there was a
+messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them
+busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them,
+for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was
+doubtless at its flood.
+
+So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then
+she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness
+through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven.
+
+As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But
+the memory of Drene’s eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her.
+
+After a little waiting she got Graylock’s apartment. A servant asked her
+to hold the wire.
+
+After an interval she recognized Graylock’s voice at the telephone,
+pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the season.
+
+“What are you doing this Christmas night?” she asked. “Surely you are
+not all alone there at home?”
+
+“I am rather too old for anything else,” he said.
+
+“But what are you doing? Reading?”
+
+“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I happened to be cleaning an automatic
+revolver when you called up.”
+
+“What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of
+celebrating?”
+
+“There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight.”
+
+“But there is. You are requested to make a call.”
+
+“On whom?” he asked, quietly.
+
+“On Mr. Drene.”
+
+For a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him twice,
+thinking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his voice
+came, curiously altered:
+
+“Who asked that of me?”
+
+“Mr. Drene.”
+
+“Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear.”
+
+“He is convalescent.”
+
+“Did he ask you to call me?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Then--you are with him?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In his apartment. I came downstairs to the janitor’s rooms. I am
+telephoning from there what he wished me to ask you.”
+
+After a pause Graylock said: “Is his mind perfectly clear?”
+
+“Perfectly, now.”
+
+“He asked for me?”
+
+“Yes. Will you come?”
+
+“He asked for me? Tonight? At eleven o’clock?”
+
+She said: “I don’t think he knows even what month it is. He has only
+been conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christmas night
+perhaps he might not have disturbed you. But--will you come?”
+
+“I am afraid it is too late--to-night.”
+
+“Tomorrow, then? Shall I tell him?”
+
+There was a silence. She repeated the question. But Graylock’s reply was
+inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of good night.
+
+Somewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family and
+probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in there;
+there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.
+
+The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips. Blessed
+happiness had come to her in time for Christmas--a strange and heavenly
+happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to one who loves,
+for it had been more than the mere life of this man she had asked of
+God: it had been his mind.
+
+He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking
+down at him.
+
+After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid it
+aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.
+
+Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still
+beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about
+singing under her breath. They both heard her.
+
+Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:
+
+“I am trying to get well--to start again--better--live more--nobly. ...
+Take your chance, too.”
+
+“If you wish, Drene.”
+
+“Yes. I was not--very--well. I had been ill--very--a long while ...
+And you are not to clean the automatic.... Only your own-soul.... Ask
+help.... You’ll get it..... I did.... And--all that is true--what
+we believed--as boys.... I know. I’ve seen. And it’s all true--all
+true--what we believed--as little boys.”
+
+He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a
+smile in them.
+
+“Good-bye--Jack,” he whispered.
+
+Graylock’s mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps Drene
+heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once more at his
+boyhood friend.
+
+“Somewhere--somebody will straighten out--all this,” he murmured,
+closing his eyes again: “We can’t; we can only try--to straighten
+out--ourselves.”
+
+Graylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily erect, he
+turned away.
+
+Cecile met him from the studio.
+
+“Good night,” she said, offering her hand.... “And a happy Christmas....
+I hope you will not be lonely.”
+
+He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.
+
+For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene’s bedroom
+with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.
+
+After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and, smiling,
+she came forward to the bedside.
+
+“It was a terrible dream,” he whispered--“all those years. But it was a
+dream.”
+
+“You must dream no more.”
+
+“No. Come nearer.”
+
+She rested on the bed’s edge beside him and laid one hand on his. The
+other held the holly, but he did not notice it until she offered it.
+
+“Dear,” she whispered, “it is Christmas night. And you did not even know
+it.”
+
+Suddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyes, and
+he closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that had been
+vouchsafed to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain his soul.
+
+After a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in
+the spell of the dream that invaded her--the exquisite vision of
+wifehood--she sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.
+
+Once more he turned his head and looked at her. Then her slender neck
+bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue--
+
+“Cecile!”--he faltered--“Madonna inviolate!... The
+woman--between--friends--”
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
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+<!DOCTYPE html
+   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <title>
+      Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+
+    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
+    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
+    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
+    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
+    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
+    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
+    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
+    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
+               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
+               text-align: right;}
+    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
+
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Between Friends
+
+Author: Robert W. Chambers
+
+Release Date: July 30, 2009 [EBook #8441]
+Last Updated: November 3, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN FRIENDS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andre Boutin-Maloney, and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <h1>
+      BETWEEN FRIENDS
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      By Robert W. Chambers
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      1914
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      Contents
+    </h3>
+    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
+      <tr>
+        <td>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a>
+          </p>
+          <p class="toc">
+            <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a>
+          </p>
+        </td>
+      </tr>
+    </table>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      I
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Like a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and lies down; lying
+      there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-calls, and the
+      breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscurity of himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Through the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cringed his
+      bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except the automatic
+      pulses which never cease.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world lies in
+      ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The things that men live through&mdash;and live!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had become very lean by the time it was all over. Gray glinted on his
+      temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished as far as he
+      was concerned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many years.
+      And the world thawed out very slowly for him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had so long
+      mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange and gold of
+      early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or less&mdash;little
+      excursions from the dim privacy of mind and soul&mdash;and he found the
+      sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the world once more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene continued
+      to modify his composition in accordance with Guilder&rsquo;s suggestions; Quair,
+      always curious concerning Drene, was becoming slyly impudent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And listen to me, Guilder. What the devil&rsquo;s a woman between friends?&rdquo;
+       argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. &ldquo;You take my best
+      girl away from me&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; remarked his partner dryly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell? No. I
+      merely thank you. Why? Because I don&rsquo;t want her if you can get her away.
+      That,&rdquo; he added, with satisfaction, &ldquo;is philosophy. Isn&rsquo;t it, Drene?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder intervened pleasantly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I&rsquo;m sure
+      I&rsquo;m not. Shut up, please.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out of a
+      round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was modifying.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which
+      revolved with a rusty squeak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman the
+      world&mdash;&rdquo; began Quair.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But we don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar to
+      his negative character.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Anyway,&rdquo; insisted Quair, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s what I think of &lsquo;em&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;My model, yonder,&rdquo; said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, &ldquo;happens to be
+      feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the development
+      of your rather tiresome theory.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke, stretched her
+      limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning glance at Drene.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;All right; rest a bit,&rdquo; said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he was
+      pinching over the sketch before him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on a
+      handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into the stem,
+      reflectively.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had been
+      born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over to examine
+      the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had invited.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over
+      also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it
+      belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a silence:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; said Guilder.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is true,
+      however, that, except for Guilder&rsquo;s habitual restraint, the celebrated
+      firm of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyantly, and to
+      interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s some girl,&rdquo; added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure, and
+      then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on the
+      lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched in by
+      Drene for the facade of the new opera.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Carpeaux and his eternal group&mdash;it&rsquo;s the murderous but inevitable
+      standard of comparison,&rdquo; mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the
+      photograph on the wall.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady,&rdquo; insisted Quair flippantly; and
+      he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once or twice the
+      two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the girl&rsquo;s light,
+      untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive to Quair&rsquo;s wit.
+      Perhaps Quair&rsquo;s inheritance had been humor, but to some it seemed
+      perilously akin to mother-wit.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The pockets of Guilder&rsquo;s loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with linen
+      tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over these for a
+      while, semi-conscious of Quair&rsquo;s bantering voice and the girl&rsquo;s easily
+      provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;All right, Guilder,&rdquo; said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated
+      architects prepared to evacuate the studio&mdash;Quair exhibiting symptoms
+      of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drop in on me at the office some time,&rdquo; he suggested to the youthful
+      model, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For luncheon or dinner?&rdquo; retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You may stay to breakfast also&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, come on,&rdquo; drawled Guilder, taking his colleague&rsquo;s elbow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then
+      celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on
+      neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the dancing
+      figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the squeaky
+      revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at intervals.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand, and
+      mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to the chalk
+      marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always seemed inclined to
+      be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her voice, if untrained, was
+      untroubled. Her singing had never bothered Drene, nor, until the last few
+      days, had he even particularly noticed her blithe trilling&mdash;as a man
+      a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware of the wild birds&rsquo; gay irrelevancy
+      along the way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind that
+      the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint blue of
+      skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl&rsquo;s careless singing, made for his dull
+      concentration subtly pleasant environment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;May I rest?&rdquo; she asked at length.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly, if it&rsquo;s necessary.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve brought my lunch. It&rsquo;s twelve,&rdquo; she explained.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with slight
+      irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to descend.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for that, and
+      incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important to either
+      species.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said something
+      to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was holding out
+      toward him a chicken sandwich.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the offer,
+      and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly mechanical smile, in
+      recognition of a generosity not welcome.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you ever eat luncheon?&rdquo; she asked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why should I?&rdquo; he replied, preoccupied.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?&rdquo; he asked, absently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you please take this sandwich?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting
+      attention again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why the devil do you want me to eat?&rdquo; he inquired, fishing out his empty
+      pipe and filling it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You smoke too much. It&rsquo;s bad for you. It will do very queer things to the
+      lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead of eating it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He yawned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is that so?&rdquo; he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly it&rsquo;s so. Please take this sandwich.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things and the
+      girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the fingers, placed the
+      sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as though slightly
+      disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe from his left hand
+      and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseated herself on the lounge
+      beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, she became even more uncertain
+      concerning the result of what she had done, and began to view with rising
+      alarm the steady gray eyes that were so silently inspecting her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself,
+      curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his hand,
+      then gravely tasted it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This will doubtless give me indigestion,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;Why, Cecile, do
+      you squander your wages on nourishment for me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It cost only five cents.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But why present five cents to me?&rdquo; &ldquo;I gave ten to a beggar this morning.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Was he grateful?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He seemed to be.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I&rsquo;ll not be
+      very grateful to you.&rdquo; But he continued eating.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;&lsquo;The woman tempted me,&rsquo;&rdquo; she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a moment&rsquo;s survey of her:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that
+      throng this town and occasionally flit through this profession&mdash;aren&rsquo;t
+      you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Am I?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you&rsquo;re one of the
+      surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but you appear
+      now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywhere&mdash;a pretty
+      sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary flash like a golden
+      moat afloat in sunshine&mdash;and what then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She laughed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you turn into?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You go somewhere, don&rsquo;t you? You change into something, don&rsquo;t you? What
+      happens to you, petite Cigale?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, Mr. Drene.&rdquo; She broke her chocolate cake into halves and
+      laid one on his knee.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thanks for further temptation,&rdquo; he said grimly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are welcome. It&rsquo;s good, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake,
+      with her eyes still fixed on him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered absently
+      elsewhere.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You think a great deal, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; she remarked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I try not to&mdash;too much.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She shrugged her shoulders:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the advantage of thinking?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish eyes,
+      and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged as usual&mdash;was
+      wandering&mdash;when she sighed, very lightly, so that he scarcely heard
+      it&mdash;merely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that, as usual, there
+      was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicinity, and that he
+      lacked the interest to listen to it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Thinking,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishment to
+      a troubled one. So I try not to.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had uttered
+      an unconscious epigram.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It sounded like somebody&mdash;probably Montaigne. Was it?&rdquo; he inquired.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you mean.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh. Then it wasn&rsquo;t. You&rsquo;re a funny little girl, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, rather.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;On purpose?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, sometimes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intelligent
+      perception of his not too civil badinage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And sometimes,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re funny when you don&rsquo;t intend to be.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are, too, Mr. Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you know it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you are. For instance, you don&rsquo;t walk; you stalk. You do what
+      novelists make their gloomy heroes do&mdash;you stride. It&rsquo;s rather
+      funny.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Really. And do you find my movements comic?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youthful
+      laugh:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are really very dramatic&mdash;a perfect story-book man. But, you
+      know, sometimes they are funny when the author doesn&rsquo;t intend them to
+      be.... Please don&rsquo;t be angry.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a loss to
+      understand&mdash;unless there lurked under that impudence a trace of
+      unflattering truth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of
+      self-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; that
+      for a while&mdash;a long while&mdash;a space of time he could not at the
+      moment conveniently compute&mdash;he had been playing a role merely
+      because he had become accustomed to it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that part.
+      Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy had
+      really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged from
+      that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten that he
+      still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine might appear
+      grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her eye&mdash;and
+      found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re quite right,&rdquo; he said, smiling easily and naturally; &ldquo;I am
+      unintentionally funny. And I really didn&rsquo;t know it&mdash;didn&rsquo;t suspect it&mdash;until
+      this moment.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she said quickly. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean&mdash;I know you are often unhappy&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are! Anybody can see&mdash;and you really do not seem to be very old,
+      either&mdash;when you smile&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not very old,&rdquo; he said, amused. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not unhappy, either. If I ever
+      was, the truth is that I&rsquo;ve almost forgotten by this time what it was all
+      about&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A woman,&rdquo; she quoted, &ldquo;between friends&rdquo;&mdash;and checked herself,
+      frightened that she had dared interpret Quair&rsquo;s malice.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his visage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she faltered, &ldquo;I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry for
+      you so long&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s generally supposed. I don&rsquo;t know anything more than that. But I&rsquo;ve
+      been&mdash;sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing,&rdquo; she said under her
+      breath.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is it?&rdquo; he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I have not thought of it that way, recently.... I haven&rsquo;t thought about
+      it at all&mdash;for some years.... Have you?&rdquo; he added, trying to speak
+      gravely.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes. I have thought of it,&rdquo; she admitted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, it is.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor is
+      always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful. It
+      usually finishes us&mdash;you know.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you in love?&rdquo; he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I could be. I know that much.&rdquo; She went to the sink, turned on the water,
+      washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking about for a
+      towel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll get you one,&rdquo; he said. When he brought it, she laughed and held out
+      her hands to be dried.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you think you are a Sultana?&rdquo; he inquired, draping the towel across
+      her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I thought perhaps you&rsquo;d dry them,&rdquo; she said sweetly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not in the business,&rdquo; he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much in
+      demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of the
+      Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each separate,
+      slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of her hair&mdash;&ldquo;a
+      miracle of silk and sunshine,&rdquo; as Quair had whispered to her. That same
+      hair, also, was very popular among painters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you ready?&rdquo; grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
+      attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
+      unusually lovely ensemble.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
+      variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine feeling,
+      too, in its various modes of expression&mdash;sentimental, explosive,
+      insinuating&mdash;the entire gamut.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps, yet
+      quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with her own
+      curiosity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had not
+      suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at intervals, ventured
+      to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as an excuse, as a reason, as
+      a weapon, when the probable consequences threatened no embarrassment or
+      unpleasantness for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely untempted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
+      artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast for a
+      role which included singing and dancing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had dropped
+      into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her professionally,
+      and when she had half an hour of idleness confronting her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his busy
+      hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this day had
+      not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From the very
+      beginning of their business relations he had remained merely her employer,
+      self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, when not working, bored
+      and often yawning. She had never come to know him any better than when she
+      first laid eyes on him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid, sometimes
+      venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity concerning the
+      effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirring him to any
+      expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, one way or the other.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd to her;
+      model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usually became
+      friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all of camaraderie
+      in their relationship, only a colorless, professional sans-gene, the
+      informality of intimacy without the kindly essence of personal interest on
+      his part.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and good
+      night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them seriously;
+      relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too civil badinage when
+      she provoked him to it; and that was all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have thought her
+      a good model, or he would not have continued to send for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you think me pretty?&rdquo; she had asked one day, saucily invading one of
+      his yawning silences.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think you&rsquo;re pretty good,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;as a model. You&rsquo;d be quite
+      perfect if you were also deaf and dumb.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight heat in
+      her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childish amazement,
+      and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all that morning, but
+      which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entirely gratifying to him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;May I rest?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s necessary.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood
+      looking at his work.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you want to know my opinion?&rdquo; she asked.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, with unexpected urbanity; &ldquo;if you are clever enough to
+      have an opinion. What is it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with
+      deliberation:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an
+      entirely spontaneous and charming creation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her opinion, and
+      with surprise at her mode of expressing it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no study;
+      it is pure creation.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an average
+      and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As though,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;you had laid aside childish things.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expression.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Academic precision and the respectable excellencies of-the-usual;&mdash;you
+      have put away childish things and become a man.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where did you hear that?&rdquo; he said bluntly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not wholly
+      uneducated, although your amiable question insinuates as much.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not unamiable. Only I didn&rsquo;t suppose&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, you never have supposed anything concerning me. So why are you
+      surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Listen to me. I&rsquo;m not afraid of you any more. I&rsquo;ve been afraid for two
+      years. Now, I&rsquo;m not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You know it. You
+      didn&rsquo;t know I knew it; you didn&rsquo;t know I knew anything. And you didn&rsquo;t
+      care.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t care what I think, what I am, what interests I may have, what
+      intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animates me; do you?
+      You don&rsquo;t care whether I am ignorant or educated, bad or good, ill or well&mdash;as
+      long as it does not affect my posing for you; whether I am happy or
+      unhappy, whether I&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;For Heaven&rsquo;s sake&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But you don&rsquo;t care!... Do you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass and
+      pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s five o&rsquo;clock, you know, Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, certainly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you want me to-morrow?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. Yes, of course.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are not offended?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question in a
+      childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And looking down
+      into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You little villain!&rdquo; he said; and caught her wrists. &ldquo;A lot you care
+      whether I am offended!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She looked away from him, turning her profile. Her expression was
+      inscrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague laugh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You should have let me alone,&rdquo; he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;&lsquo;The woman tempted me,&rsquo;&rdquo; she repeated, still looking away from him. He
+      said nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; she nodded, and turned toward the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He went with her, falling into step beside her. One arm slipped around her
+      waist as they entered the hallway. They walked slowly to the door. He
+      unlatched it, hesitated; she moved one foot forward, and he took a step at
+      the same time which brought her across his path so closely that contact
+      was unavoidable. And he kissed her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;So you are human after all! I often wondered.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She looked up, trying to laugh, but could not seem to take it as coolly as
+      she might have wished to.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not that a kiss is very important in these days,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;yet it
+      might interest you to hear that a friend of yours rather fancies me. He
+      wouldn&rsquo;t like you to do it. But&mdash;&rdquo; She lifted her blue eyes with
+      faint malice&mdash;&ldquo;What is a woman between friends?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Jack Graylock.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene remained motionless.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t encouraged him,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Perhaps that is why.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why he fancies you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why he asked me to marry him. It was the only thing he had not asked.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He asked that?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;After he realized it was the only way, I suppose,&rdquo; she said coolly. Drene
+      took her into his arms and kissed her deliberately on the mouth. Looking
+      up at him she said: &ldquo;After all, he is your friend, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A friend of many years. But, as you say, what is a woman between
+      friends?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said the girl. And, still clasped in his arms, she bent
+      her head, thoughtfully, considering the question.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And as though she had come to some final conclusion, she raised her head,
+      lifted her eyes slowly, and her lips, to the man whose arms enfolded her.
+      It was her answer to his question, and her own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When she had gone, he went back and stood again by the great window,
+      watching the cote on a neighboring roof, where the pigeons were strutting
+      and coquetting in the last rays of the western sun.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      II
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      When she came again to the studio, she was different, subdued, evading,
+      avoiding, smiling a little in her flushed diffidence at his gay ease of
+      manner&mdash;or assumption of both ease and gaiety.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was inclined to rally her, tease her, but her reticence was not all
+      embarrassment. The lightest contact, the slightest caress from him, added
+      a seriousness to her face, making it very lovely under its heightened
+      color, and strangely childlike.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Model and master they would have remained no longer had it been for him to
+      say, he desiring now to make it a favor and concession on her part to aid
+      him professionally, she gravely insisting on professionalism as the basis
+      of whatever entente might develop between them, as well as the only avowed
+      excuse for her presence there alone with him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Please. It&rsquo;s respectable,&rdquo; she insisted her agreeable, modulated voice.
+      &ldquo;I had rather the reason for my coming here be business&mdash;whatever
+      else happens.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What has happened,&rdquo; he said, balancing a handful of wet clay in one hand
+      and looking laughingly up at her, where she stood on the model-stand, &ldquo;is
+      that a pretty girl strolled in here one day and held up a mirror to a
+      solemn ass who was stalking theatrically through life. That solemn ass is
+      very grateful for the glimpse he had of himself. He behaved gratefully,
+      didn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very,&rdquo; she said with a forced smile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you object to the manner in which he expressed his gratitude?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She hung her head.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a while she raised her eyes, her head still lowered. He was working,
+      darkly absorbed as usual in the plastic mass under his fingers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She watched him curiously, not his hands, now, but his lean, intent face,
+      striving to penetrate that masculine mask, trying to understand. Varying
+      and odd reflections and emotions possessed her in turn, and passed&mdash;wonder,
+      bewilderment at herself, at him; a slight sense of fear, then a brief and
+      sudden access of shyness, succeeded by the by glow of an emotion new and
+      strange and deep. And this, in turn, by vague bewilderment again, in which
+      there was both a hint of fear, and a tinge of something exquisite.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Within herself she was dimly conscious that a certain gaiety, an
+      irresponsibility and lightness had died out in her, perhaps permanently,
+      yet leaving no void. What it was that replaced these she could not name&mdash;she
+      only was conscious that if these had been subdued by a newer knowledge,
+      with a newer seriousness, this unaccustomed gravity had left her heart no
+      less tender, and had deepened her capacity for emotion to depths as
+      profound and unexplored as the sudden mystery of their discovery by
+      herself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Always, now, while she posed, she was looking at him with a still
+      intentness, as though he really wore a mask and she, breathlessly
+      vigilant, watched for the moment when he might forget and lift it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But during the weeks that followed, if the mask were indeed only the
+      steady preoccupation that his visage wore, she seemed to learn nothing
+      more about him when his features lost their dark absorption and he caught
+      her eye and smiled. No, the smile revealed nothing except another mask
+      under the more serious cast of concentration&mdash;only another disguise
+      that covered whatever this man might truly be deeper down&mdash;this
+      masculine and unknown invader of frontiers surrendered ere she had
+      understood they were even besieged.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And during these weeks in early spring their characteristics, even
+      characters, seemed to have shifted curiously and become reversed; his was
+      now the light, irresponsible, half-mocking badinage&mdash;almost boyishly
+      boisterous at times, as, for instance, when he stepped forward after the
+      pose and swung her laughingly from the model-platform to her corner on the
+      sofa.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You pretty and clever little thing,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;why are you becoming so
+      serious and absent-minded?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Am I becoming so?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are. You oughtn&rsquo;t to: you&rsquo;ve made a new and completely different man
+      of me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      As though that were an admirable achievement, or even of any particular
+      importance. And yet she seemed to think it was both of these when, resting
+      against him, within the circle of his arm, still shy and silent under the
+      breathless poignancy of an emotion which ever seemed to sound within her
+      depths unsuspected.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But when he said that she had made a new and completely different man of
+      him, she remembered his low-voiced when that change impended as he held
+      her by her wrists a moment, then dropped them. He had said, half to
+      himself: &ldquo;You should have let me alone!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out for luncheon
+      realizing they would never have been seated together in a restaurant had
+      she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let him alone; she knew
+      that. She tried to wish that she had&mdash;tried to regret everything,
+      anything; and could not, even when within her the faint sense of alarm
+      awoke amid the softly unchangeable unreality of these last six weeks of
+      spring.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Was this then really love?&mdash;this drifting through alternating dreams
+      of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes of
+      fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths of
+      cloud?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only that
+      she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dimly
+      understood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was missing&mdash;her
+      conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died? Were the little,
+      inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its disintegration? Or its immortal
+      vitality?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of its
+      loss&mdash;dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember nothing
+      to be sorry for. And there was so much.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and her,
+      amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was a
+      nine days&rsquo; gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was forgotten&mdash;as
+      are all wonders&mdash;in nine days.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the
+      tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman&rsquo;s name, and a man&rsquo;s&mdash;Drene&rsquo;s
+      closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the busy&mdash;not
+      that the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it quickly,
+      having other matters to think about.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own condescending
+      advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously inflammable attentions
+      elsewhere.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and
+      Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his dapper
+      confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first bored, grew
+      irritable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What are you talking about?&rdquo; he said sharply.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m talking about Cecile White,&rdquo; continued Quair, looking rather oddly at
+      the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t suppose you
+      could be interested in any woman&mdash;not that I mind your interfering
+      with any little affair between Cecile and me&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There wasn&rsquo;t any.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Drene&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There wasn&rsquo;t any!&rdquo; repeated Drene, with curt contempt. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk about
+      her, anyway.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You mean I&rsquo;m not to talk about a common artist&rsquo;s model&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not that way.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh. Is she yours?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She isn&rsquo;t anybody&rsquo;s, I fancy. Therefore, let her alone, or I&rsquo;ll throw you
+      out of doors.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair said to Guilder after they had departed:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Fancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious basis!
+      He&rsquo;s doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what&rsquo;s in it for her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Everybody is decent enough to her as far as I know.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Including yourself?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly, including myself,&rdquo; retorted Quair, adding naively: &ldquo;Besides, I
+      knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yet you tried it,&rdquo; mused Guilder, entering his big touring car and
+      depositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his own
+      ponderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the chauffeur,
+      then:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tried nothing,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;A little chaff, that&rsquo;s all. When it comes to a
+      man like Jack Graylock going so far as to ask her to marry him, good
+      night, nurse! Nothing doing, even for me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Even for you,&rdquo; repeated Guilder in his moderate and always modulated
+      voice. &ldquo;Well, if she&rsquo;s escaped you and Graylock, she&rsquo;s beyond any danger
+      from Drene, I fancy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair smiled appreciatively, as though a delicate compliment had been
+      offered him. Several times on the way to call on Graylock he insisted on
+      stopping the car at as many celebrated cafes. Guilder patiently awaited
+      him in the car and each time Quair emerged from the cafe bar a little more
+      flushed and a trifle jauntier than when he had entered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was a man so perfectly attired and so scrupulously fastidious about his
+      person that Guilder often speculated as to just why Quair always seemed to
+      him a trifle soiled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in the
+      face, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little, pinched
+      nostrils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior member of the
+      firm as though the junior member were physically unclean.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s about ten drinks since luncheon,&rdquo; he remarked, as the car rolled
+      on down Fifth Avenue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poked his
+      gloved thumb:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a merry old cock, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he inquired genially, &ldquo;&mdash;like
+      a pig&rsquo;s wrist! If I hadn&rsquo;t the drinking of the entire firm to do, who&rsquo;d
+      ever talk about Guilder and Quair, architects?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when &ldquo;soused.&rdquo;
+       And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he was.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock received them in his office&mdash;a big, reckless-eyed, handsome
+      man, with Broad Street written all over him and &ldquo;danger&rdquo; etched in every
+      deepened line of his face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, how about that business of mine?&rdquo; he inquired. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all right to
+      keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match for highballs
+      at the Ritz.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I had to see Drene&mdash;that&rsquo;s why we are late,&rdquo; explained Guilder.
+      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene?&rdquo; interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a curious
+      and staring intensity. &ldquo;Why drag Drene into an excuse?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Because we went to his studio,&rdquo; said Guilder. &ldquo;Now about letting the
+      contracts&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Were you at Drene&rsquo;s studio?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. He&rsquo;s doing the groups for the new opera for us.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Neat little skirt he has up there&mdash;that White girl,&rdquo; he remarked,
+      seating himself on Graylock&rsquo;s polished table.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A dull flush stained Graylock&rsquo;s cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned on
+      Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two thin
+      streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Some skirt,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;And it looks as though old Drene had her
+      number&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder&rsquo;s level voice interrupted:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;The contracts are ready to be&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all the
+      time at Quair, said slowly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene isn&rsquo;t that kind.... Is he?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Our kind, you mean?&rdquo; inquired Quair, with a malice so buried under
+      flippancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with Graylock.
+      Which amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was not sufficient.
+      He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled on
+      their necks&mdash;the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them after
+      she&rsquo;s turned down everything else they suggest.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock&rsquo;s square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed to grow even
+      paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of this man&rsquo;s record
+      with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumors which connected him
+      so seriously with Cecile White, swung his leg unconcernedly, where it
+      dangled over the table&rsquo;s edge, and smiled frankly and knowingly upon
+      Graylock:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn&rsquo;t on the
+      breakfast table. When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock, Providence
+      has created a species of man who settles our bills.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two thin
+      streams through his nose.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Maybe Drene may marry her himself. But&mdash;I don&rsquo;t believe he&rsquo;ll have
+      to.... Now, about those contracts&mdash;&rdquo; he affected a yawn, &ldquo;&mdash;go
+      on and tell him, Guilder,&rdquo; he added, his words distorted by another yawn.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretched his
+      arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had never moved a
+      muscle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn&rsquo;t you,
+      Graylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well&mdash;my hat off to old Drene
+      if he wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what&rsquo;s a woman
+      between friends?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      And he nodded gaily at Graylock and sauntered leisurely to the window.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And kept his back turned, fearful of exploding with laughter in the very
+      face of the man who had been staring at him out of pale, unchanging eyes
+      so steadily and so long.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder&rsquo;s patient, bored, but moderate voice was raised once more:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In regard to the letting of these contracts&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But Graylock, staring at Quair&rsquo;s back, neither heeded nor heard him, for
+      his brain was still ringing with the mockery of Quair&rsquo;s words&mdash;&ldquo;What
+      is a woman between friends?&rdquo; And now, for the first time, he was beginning
+      to understand what the answer might be.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      III
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had begun to
+      miss her, after his own fashion&mdash;that is, he thought of her when not
+      preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when unoccupied.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and
+      scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he could
+      never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper, pocketed it, and
+      went out to his dinner.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters professional,
+      schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which gradually, though not
+      excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to see her at that particular
+      time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to communicate
+      with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering concentration which
+      included himself and his career, as well as his work, seemed to obliterate
+      even any memory of her existence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book, or
+      duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and brain a
+      faint pain became apparent&mdash;if it could still be called pain, this
+      vague ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead years&mdash;and at such
+      moments he thought of Graylock, and of another; and the partly paralyzed
+      emotion, which memory of these two evoked, stirred him finally to think of
+      Cecile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next day
+      and continue with her what had been begun&mdash;an intimacy which depended
+      upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct whispered was within
+      his own control. But the next day found him at work; models of various
+      types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came, posed, were paid, and
+      departed; his studies for the groups in collaboration with Guilder and
+      Quair were approaching the intensely interesting period&mdash;that stage
+      of completion where composition has been determined upon and the
+      excitement of developing the construction and the technical charm of
+      modeling begins.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And evening always found him physically tired and mentally satisfied&mdash;or
+      perturbed&mdash;to the exclusion of such minor interests as life is made
+      of&mdash;dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and a beloved
+      profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room for these or
+      thought of these.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteristic of
+      creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples, and
+      grayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid New York
+      summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gaunt, silent, darkly
+      absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air until some
+      half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of a headache, set him
+      in reluctant motion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He heard of Cecile now and then; Cosby had used her for a figure on a
+      fountain destined to embellish the estate of a wealthy young man somewhere
+      or other; Greer employed her for the central figure of Innocence in his
+      lovely and springlike decoration for some Western public edifice. Quair
+      had met her several times at Manhattan Beach with various and assorted
+      wealthy young men.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying on
+      the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging inert to
+      the floor above an evening paper fallen there.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Hello, Guilder,&rdquo; he said, without rising, as the big architect shambled
+      loosely through the open doorway.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How are you, Drene?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;All right. It&rsquo;s hot.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s not a breath of air. It looks like a thunder-storm in the west.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features with a
+      damp handkerchief.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a chapel to
+      the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We&rsquo;ve pinched the job. Can you
+      do an altar piece?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What sort?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They want a Virgin. It&rsquo;s to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
+      It&rsquo;s for women to repair to&mdash;under certain and natural
+      circumstances.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve so much on hand&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only a single figure-barring the dove. Why don&rsquo;t you do it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There are plenty of other men&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They want you. There&rsquo;ll be no difficulty about terms.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene said with a shrug:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Terms are coming to mean less and less to me, Guilder. It costs very
+      little for me to live.&rdquo; He turned his gray, tired face. &ldquo;Look at this barn
+      of a place; and go in there and look at my bedroom. I have no use for what
+      are known as necessities.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Still, terms are terms&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, yes. A truck may run over me. Even at that, I&rsquo;ve enough to live life
+      out as I am living it here&mdash;between these empty walls&mdash;and that
+      expanse of glass overhead. That&rsquo;s about all life holds for me&mdash;a
+      sheet of glass and four empty walls&mdash;and a fistfull of wet clay.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you a trifle morbid, Drene?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not by any means; I merely prefer to live this way. I have sufficient
+      means to live otherwise if I wish. But this is enough of the world to suit
+      me, Guilder&mdash;and I can go to a noisy restaurant to eat in when I&rsquo;m so
+      inclined&mdash;&rdquo; He laughed a rather mirthless laugh and glanced up,
+      catching a peculiar expression in Guilder&rsquo;s eyes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re thinking,&rdquo; said Drene coolly, &ldquo;what a god I once set up on the
+      altar of domesticity. I used to talk a lot once, didn&rsquo;t I?&mdash;a hell of
+      a clamor I made in eulogy of the domestic virtues. Well, only idiots
+      retain the same opinions longer than twenty-four hours. Fixity is
+      imbecility; the inconstant alone progress; dissatisfaction is only a
+      synonym for intelligence; contentment translated means stagnation..... I
+      have changed my opinion concerning the virtues of domesticity.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder said, in his even, moderate voice:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Your logic is weird, Drene: in one breath you say you have changed your
+      opinion; in another that you are content; in another that contentment is
+      the fixedness of imbecility&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene, reddening slightly, half rose on one elbow from his couch:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What I meant was that I change in my convictions from day to day, without
+      reproaching myself with inconstancy. What I believed with all my heart to
+      be sacred yesterday I find a barrier to-day; and push it aside and go on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Toward what?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I go on, that&rsquo;s all I know&mdash;toward sanctuary.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You mean professionally.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In every way&mdash;ethically&mdash;spiritually. The gods of yesterday,
+      too, were very real&mdash;yesterday.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene, a man may change and progress on his way toward what never
+      changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in the beginning;
+      they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have no goal.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is there a goal?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where are you going, then?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Just on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors all
+      journey.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perfection?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Guilder nodded.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; smiled Drene, &ldquo;no two sculptors ever see it alike.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It is still Perfection. It is still the goal to the color-blind and
+      normal alike, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it. That is
+      its only importance; it is The Goal..... In things spiritual the same
+      obtains&mdash;whether one&rsquo;s vision embraces Nirvana, or the Algonquin
+      Ocean of Light, or a pallid Christ half hidden in floating clouds&mdash;Drene,
+      it is all one, all one. It is not the Goal that changes; only our
+      intelligence concerning its existence and its immortality.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene lay looking at him:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You never knew pain&mdash;real pain, did you? The world never ended for
+      you, did it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In one manner or another we all must be reborn before we can progress.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is a cant phrase.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No; there&rsquo;s truth under the cant. Under all the sleek, smooth, canty
+      phrases of ecclesiastic proverb, precept, axiom, and lore, there is truth
+      worth the sifting out.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are welcome to think so, Guilder.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You also could come to no other conclusion if you took the trouble to
+      investigate.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene smiled:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Morals are no more than folk-ways&mdash;merely mental condition
+      consequent upon custom. Spiritual beliefs are radically dependant upon
+      folkways and the resultant physical and mental condition of the human
+      brain which creates everything that has been and that is to be.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Physiology has proven that no idea, no thought, ever originated within
+      the concrete and physical brain.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve read of those experiments.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then you can&rsquo;t ignore a conclusion.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t reached a conclusion. Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all that&rsquo;s necessary,&rdquo; said Guilder, gravely, &ldquo;&mdash;to entertain
+      some belief, temporary or final.&rdquo; He smiled slightly down at Drene&rsquo;s
+      drawn, gray visage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we have never
+      before talked this way. I did not feel at liberty to assume any intimacy
+      with you, even when I wanted to, even when&mdash;when you were in trouble&mdash;&rdquo;
+       He hesitated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; grunted the other. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m out of trouble now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I just&mdash;it&rsquo;s a whimsical notion&mdash;no, it&rsquo;s a belief;&mdash;I
+      just wanted to tell you one or two things concerning my own beliefs&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Temporary?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. It doesn&rsquo;t matter; they are beliefs. And this is one: all
+      physical and mental ills are created only by our own minds&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Christian Science?&rdquo; sneered Drene.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Call it what you like,&rdquo; said Guilder serenely. &ldquo;And call this what you
+      like: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief true in
+      every detail after death.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you call that?&rdquo; demanded Drene, amused.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;God knows. It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal. I seem to be
+      journeying toward it without more obstacles and more embarrassments to
+      encounter than confront the wayfarer who professes any other creed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a while Drene sat up on his couch:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How did all this conversation start?&rdquo; he asked uneasily.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was about the Virgin for that chapel we are going to do..... That&rsquo;s
+      part of my belief: those who pray for her intercession will find her after
+      death, interceding&mdash;&rdquo; he smiled, &ldquo;&mdash;if any intercession be
+      necessary between us and Him who made us.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And those unlisted millions who importune Mohammed and Buddha?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;They shall find Mohammed and Buddha, who importune them worthily.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And&mdash;Christ?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He bears that name also&mdash;He!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh! And so, spiritually as well as artistically, you believe in the
+      Virgin?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You also can make a better Virgin if you believe in her otherwise than
+      esthetically.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene gazed at him incredulously, then, with a shrug:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When do you want this thing started?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t take it on now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I want a sketch pretty soon&mdash;the composition. You can have a model
+      of the chapel to&mdash;morrow. We went on with it as a speculation. Now
+      we&rsquo;ve clinched the thing. When shall I send it up from the office?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll look it over, but&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; interrupted Guilder, &ldquo;you had better get that Miss White for the
+      Virgin&mdash;before she goes off somewhere out of reach.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene looked up somberly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t kept in touch with her. I don&rsquo;t know what her engagements may
+      be.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;One of her engagements just now seems to be to go about with Graylock,&rdquo;
+       said Guilder.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene flushed, but said nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If he marries her,&rdquo; added Guilder, &ldquo;as it&rsquo;s generally understood he is
+      trying to, the best sculptor&rsquo;s model in town is out of the question.
+      Better secure her now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He wants to marry her?&rdquo; repeated Drene, in a curiously still voice.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s mad about her. He&rsquo;s abject. It&rsquo;s no secret among his friends. Men
+      like that&mdash;and of that age&mdash;sometimes arrive at such a terminal&mdash;men
+      with Graylock&rsquo;s record sometimes get theirs. She has given him a run,
+      believe me, and he&rsquo;s brought up with a crash against a stone wall. He is
+      lying there all doubled up at her feet like a rabbit with a broken back.
+      There was nothing left for him to do but lie there. He&rsquo;s lying there
+      still, with one of her little feet on his bull neck. All the town knows
+      it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He wants to marry her,&rdquo; repeated Drene, as though to himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She may not take him at that. They&rsquo;re queer&mdash;some women. I suppose
+      she&rsquo;d jump at it if she were not straight. But there&rsquo;s another thing&mdash;&rdquo;
+       Guilder looked curiously at Drene. &ldquo;Some people think she&rsquo;s rather crazy
+      about you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene gazed into space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But that wouldn&rsquo;t hurt her,&rdquo; added Guilder, in his calm, pleasant voice.
+      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a straight little thing&mdash;white and straight. She could come to
+      no harm through a man like you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene continued to stare at space.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;So,&rdquo; continued the other, confident, &ldquo;when she recovers from a natural
+      and childlike infatuation for you she&rsquo;ll marry somebody... Possibly even
+      such a man as Graylock might make her happy. You can&rsquo;t ever tell about
+      such men at the eleventh hour.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you pretty damned charitable?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Charitable? Well, I&mdash;I&rsquo;m so inclined, I fancy.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I did not say so. I am no judge of men. No man knows enough to condemn
+      souls.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene looked at him:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you something. I know enough to do it. I had rather damn
+      my soul&mdash;and hers, too&mdash;than see her marry the man you have
+      named. It would be worth it to me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a strained silence, Guilder said:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There is a mode of dealing with those who have injured you, which is
+      radically different&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I deal with such people in my own fashion!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But, after all, the infamy is Graylock&rsquo;s. Why oblige him by sharing it
+      with him?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you know what he did to me and mine?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A few of us know,&rdquo; said Guilder, gently, &ldquo;&mdash;your old friends.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene&rsquo;s eyes:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take your commission for that altar piece,&rdquo; he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is it? An Annunciation?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IV
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by the
+      middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine until five;
+      every evening they had dined together at the seashore or other suburban
+      and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer entertainment in
+      town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings together in his studio,
+      chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes discussing he work in hand or
+      other subjects of he moment, even topics covering a wider and more varied
+      range than he had ever before discussed with any woman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had been
+      absent from his face&mdash;the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to have
+      become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times, smoothed
+      out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety had been
+      not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something duller, his
+      laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in her surprised and
+      shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and delightful
+      transfiguration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from him, from
+      herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of absence; and
+      she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little, as always, when in
+      contact with him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
+      reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her pretty
+      hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and released it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for a
+      quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the night&rsquo;s
+      parting.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease with
+      him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of isolation
+      to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man, such a
+      friend, never had she imagined there was in him such kindness, such
+      patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such virile sense and
+      sympathy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
+      disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship, wholly,
+      heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the moment; and
+      so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in the same fashion,
+      unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself to him by degrees as
+      their comradeship became deliciously unembarrassed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat there
+      enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle and fallen
+      back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart&mdash;and sometimes she
+      strove to imagine something of the divine moment which she was embodying;
+      pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in the stillness, through
+      her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite, as though in faint
+      perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into her half-dreaming senses
+      came the soft stirring of wings, and she opened her eyes and looked up,
+      startled and thrilled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window from the
+      cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on whimpering wings
+      for a moment and then sheered out into the sunlight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
+      particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was
+      that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he not
+      interrupting.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something of
+      them&mdash;and inferred more; nothing unusual&mdash;a musical career
+      determined upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel
+      meshes of destitution&mdash;the necessity for self-support, a friend who
+      knew a painter who employed models&mdash;not anything unusual, not even
+      dramatic.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He nodded as she ended:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Have you saved anything?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A hundred dollars.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s fine.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You are thinking,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that youth is flying.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She smiled wistfully.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She nodded.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You could have married.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; she asked, troubled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To obtain the means for a musical education.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She gazed at him in amazement, then: &ldquo;I could go out on the street, too,
+      as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,&rdquo; he said.
+      She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden
+      table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond&mdash;Graylock&rsquo;s
+      light eyes riveted upon them both.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; he said, under his breath, &ldquo;that I shall not marry you. But&mdash;would
+      you care to begin your studies again?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until the
+      orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her lip
+      tremble.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I had not thought you meant to ask me&mdash;that. I do not quite
+      understand what you mean.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I was not sure you cared&mdash;enough&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you&mdash;for me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Before I say that I do&mdash;care for you&mdash;&rdquo; she began, tremulously&mdash;&ldquo;tell
+      me that I have nothing to fear&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who
+      stared back at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
+      beauty of her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to tell you something,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Love is no more wonderful
+      than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and
+      not as strong.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I
+      have, I have devised to you&mdash;in case I step out&mdash;suddenly&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He paused, hesitated, then:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Also I desire you to hear something else,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;This is the
+      proper time for you to hear it, I think&mdash;now&mdash;to-night&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There was a woman,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;She happened to be my wife. Also there
+      was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward she died&mdash;abroad.
+      I believe he was there at the time&mdash;Kept up a semblance&mdash;But he
+      never married her.... And I do not intend to marry&mdash;you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a moment: &ldquo;And that,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;is why you once said to me
+      that I should have let you alone.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did I say that to you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: &ldquo;But if you care for
+      me&mdash;I do not regret that I did not let you alone.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall not marry you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Her lip trembled but she smiled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That is nothing new to me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Only one man has offered that.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you take him?&rdquo; he asked, with an ugly laugh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t. I cared for you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;are you afraid of me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;a little.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He leaned forward suddenly, &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better steer clear of me!&rdquo; Her startled
+      eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Fair warning!&rdquo; he added: &ldquo;look out for yourself.&rdquo; Everything that was
+      brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features so
+      that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised look
+      stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re taking chances from now on,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I told you once to let me
+      alone. You&rsquo;d better do it now. And&mdash;&rdquo; he stared at the distant man&mdash;&ldquo;I
+      told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I&rsquo;ve waited a long time
+      to strike. Even now it isn&rsquo;t in me to do it as I have meant to do it. And
+      so I tell you to keep away from me; and I&rsquo;ll strike in the old-fashioned
+      way, and end it&mdash;to-night.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with
+      his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was
+      doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in
+      silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the
+      shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing
+      his ghastly face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Something snapped&rdquo;&mdash;he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;&mdash;&ldquo;I
+      care very deeply for you. I&mdash;they&rsquo;ll make over to you&mdash;what I
+      have. You can study on it&mdash;live on it, modestly&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;W-what is the matter? Are you ill?&rdquo; she stammered, white and frightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep
+      away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an
+      opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he
+      thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in&mdash;leaving
+      the door into the hallway open&mdash;and straight on across the room to
+      his desk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still
+      turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the
+      threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and then,
+      as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And so they stood alone together after many years.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      V
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Graylock looked at Drene&rsquo;s heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in it.
+      A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily enough:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to say a word or two&mdash;if you&rsquo;ll give me time.&rdquo; And, as
+      Drene made no reply;&mdash;&ldquo;You&rsquo;re quite right: This business of ours
+      should be finished one way or another. I can&rsquo;t stand it any longer.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In that case,&rdquo; remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, &ldquo;I may postpone
+      it&mdash;to find out how much you can stand.&rdquo; He dropped his right hand
+      into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all the while:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What do you want here anyway?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I fancy that you have already guessed.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Maybe. All the same, what do you want?&rdquo;&mdash;fumbling with his bulging
+      pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock&rsquo;s worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon: he
+      stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa,
+      his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;&mdash;a star
+      overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;&mdash;otherwise
+      gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a
+      narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long time, Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
+      armchair toward him and seated himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s many years,&rdquo; repeated Graylock. &ldquo;I expected you to do something
+      before this.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Were you uneasy?&rdquo; sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that Graylock
+      was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who deals a
+      premature and useless blow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as
+      though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I suppose you&rsquo;ll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came
+      here,&rdquo; said Graylock.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or do?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his
+      knees.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Drene,&rdquo; he said, in a low voice, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t strike at me through this young
+      girl.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you in love with her?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.... You know it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene said, still laughing: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the common rumor. You may imagine it
+      amuses your friends&mdash;if you have any left.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great room:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t harm her, Drene. It is not necessary. I shall never see her again&mdash;if
+      that will content you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene laughed: &ldquo;I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I never saw
+      her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... My wife. And
+      when she died, still my wife. There was no relief&mdash;no relief.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands and
+      stared at nothing:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I understand now. I am here to-night to pay the
+      reckoning.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t pay it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No, not the whole score. There&rsquo;s another bill, I suppose, waiting for me&mdash;somewhere.
+      But I can settle my indebtedness to you&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s up to you, Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;How?&rdquo; repeated Drene, violently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene&rsquo;s sagging
+      pocket: &ldquo;That way if you like. Or,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;There is a harder
+      punishment.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To give her up.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Drene, &ldquo;that is harder. But I can make it even harder than
+      that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let you
+      live through it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and
+      leisurely pushed the lever to &ldquo;safe.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He said: &ldquo;To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a lifer. You
+      know what you are while you&rsquo;re alive; maybe you&rsquo;d forget if you were dead.
+      I&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his knee; and
+      for a while they remained silent, not looking at each other. And when
+      Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently.&rdquo; He
+      shot an ugly look at Graylock: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know about you, either. You&rsquo;re a
+      rat. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant. And in that
+      case you&rsquo;d get away&mdash;if it&rsquo;s true that the eleventh hour is not too
+      late.... If it&rsquo;s true that Christ is merciful.... So I&rsquo;ll take no chances
+      of a getaway. You might fool me&mdash;one way or another&mdash;if you were
+      dead.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock lifted his head from his hands: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how much of the
+      other debt I&rsquo;ve already paid, Drene. But I&rsquo;ve paid heavily since I knew
+      her&mdash;if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she cared
+      for you, and when I realized that you meant to strike me through her&mdash;I
+      have paid, heavily.... Yet, if you were honestly in love with her&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is that any of your damned business?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s only a child&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You rat! That&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s coming to you!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you say so. But what is coming to her, Drene?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Continue to guess. But I know you. It&rsquo;s yourself you&rsquo;re sorry for and
+      what you&rsquo;ll have to endure&mdash;live through. That&rsquo;s what you can&rsquo;t
+      stand, and remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will make
+      earth a living hell for you; never a second, day or night, will you be
+      able to forget&mdash;if you really do love her.... And I believe you do&mdash;I
+      don&rsquo;t understand how a thing like you can love&mdash;but it seems it can.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a silence Graylock said: &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t care if you damn yourself?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s worth it to me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as I
+      am?&rdquo; Drene&rsquo;s gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in silence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you care what you do to her?&rdquo; asked Graylock, unsteadily. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a
+      viler business than that for which you are punishing me.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on his knees.
+      And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s bad enough either
+      way for me, Drene. I&rsquo;ll do what you wish in the matter. I&rsquo;ll leave the
+      country; I&rsquo;ll stay; whichever you say. Or,&rdquo; he said with a ghastly smile,
+      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll clean out that automatic for you to-night&mdash;if you&rsquo;ll marry
+      her.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene looked up, slowly:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I said that I&rsquo;d clean out your automatic for you&mdash;to-night&mdash;if
+      you wish.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In my own rooms&mdash;if it is to be an accident.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Do you offer&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes; if you&rsquo;ll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I&rsquo;ll take your
+      word.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;And then you&rsquo;ll be out of your misery, you damned coward!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;God knows.... But I think not,&rdquo; said Graylock, under his breath.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it, considering.
+      Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer noticing the other man.
+      Once his promenade brought him up facing the wall where a calendar hung.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He stood for a while looking at it absently. After a few moments he
+      stepped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then one by one
+      tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the month marked December,
+      Graylock watching him all the while.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I think it happened on Christmas,&rdquo; remarked Drene turning toward the
+      other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock&rsquo;s head bent slightly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Very well. Suppose about eleven o&rsquo;clock on Christmas night you give your
+      automatic a thorough cleaning.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you say so.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You have one?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I shall buy one.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you come here armed?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene looked at him very intently. But Graylock had never been a liar.
+      After a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the weapon under
+      the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;All right. You can go.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VI
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      He wrote to Cecile once:
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      Hereafter keep clear of men like Graylock and like me. We&rsquo;re both of a
+      stripe&mdash;the same sort under our skins. I&rsquo;ve known him all my life. It
+      all depends upon the opportunity, the circumstances, and the woman. And,
+      what is a woman between friends&mdash;between such friends as Graylock and
+      I once were&mdash;or between the sort of friends we have now become? Keep
+      clear of such men as we are. We were boys together.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a week or two he kept his door locked and lived on what the janitor
+      provided for him, never going out of the studio at all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He did no work, although there were several unexecuted commissions
+      awaiting his attention and a number of sketches, clay studies, and one
+      marble standing around the studio in various stages of progress. The
+      marble was the Annunciation. The head and throat and slender hands were
+      completed, and one slim naked foot.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes he wandered from one study to the next, vague-eyed, standing for
+      a long time before each, staring, lost in thought. Sometimes, in the
+      evening he read, choosing a book at random among the motley collection in
+      a corner case&mdash;a dusty, soiled assortment of books, ephemeral novels
+      of the moment, ponderous volumes which are in everybody&rsquo;s library but
+      which nobody reads, sets of histories, memoirs, essays, beautifully bound
+      and once cared for, but now dirty from neglect&mdash;jetsam from a wrecked
+      home.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There had been a time when law, order and neatness formed the basis of
+      Drene&rsquo;s going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise, fastidious;
+      he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of beautiful things, a man
+      who deeply appreciated any symbol that suggested home and hearth and
+      family.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye, something
+      else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaos, indifferent to all
+      that had formerly been a part of him, a silent emotionless, burnt out
+      thing, callous to all that he had once cared for.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yet something of what he had been must have remained latent within him for
+      with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his clay and chiseled
+      his marble; and there must have been in him something to express, for the
+      beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had set him high among the
+      highest in his profession.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so that it
+      burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow sears, rendering
+      the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow remains under the ashes, a
+      living coal steadily consuming all that is noble, hardening all that is
+      ignoble; and is extinguished leaving a devil behind it&mdash;fully
+      equipped to slay the crippled soul.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was becoming
+      aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious of it;
+      recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding that
+      although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding, and very,
+      very quiet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even himself&mdash;that
+      day when, lifted out of his indifference for an instant by a young girl&rsquo;s
+      gaiety&mdash;and with a smile, half-responsive, on his own unaccustomed
+      lips, he had learned from her in the same instant, that the man he had
+      almost ceased to remember was honestly in love with her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and that
+      there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and what perhaps
+      was love.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself still
+      hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it possible? If he
+      broke his word after Graylock was dead could he still strike and reach him
+      through the woman for whose sake he, Graylock, was going to step out of
+      things?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      That occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody who could tell
+      him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether the soul
+      survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, could a living
+      man add anything to its torments for his enemy&rsquo;s benefit?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was
+      feeling quite well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&rdquo; said Drene, &ldquo;I am well.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he
+      mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own quarters in
+      many weeks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene nodded: &ldquo;I expect to go for a walk this evening.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness, wondering
+      what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his days.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep? Did he
+      suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever suspected him,
+      Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled his final part of
+      the bargain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock was
+      thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is in good
+      physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the very second
+      how many seconds of life remain for him?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene&rsquo;s sick brain ached with the problem day and night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in imagination.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Day after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night after
+      night, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues at
+      midday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see what
+      expression this man wore, what was imprinted on his features;&mdash;obsessed
+      by a desire to learn what he might be thinking&mdash;with death drawing
+      nearer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But Drene, in the body, had never stirred from his own chilly room&mdash;a
+      gaunt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, half-clothed, huddled all day in his
+      chair brooding above his bitten nails, or flung starkly across his couch
+      at night staring at the stars through the dirty crust of glass above.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One night in December when the stars were all staring steadily back at
+      him, and his thoughts were out somewhere in the darkness following his
+      enemy, he heard somebody laughing in the room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a while he lay very still, listening; but when he realized that the
+      laughter was his own he sat up, pressing his temples between hot and
+      trembling fingers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It seemed to silence the laughter: terror subsided to a tremulous
+      apprehension&mdash;as though he had been on the verge of something
+      horrible sinking into it for a moment&mdash;but had escaped.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Again he found himself thinking of Graylock, and presently he laughed;
+      then frightened, checked himself. But his fevered brain had been afire too
+      long; he lay fighting with his thoughts to hold them in leash lest they
+      slip out into the night like blood hounds on the trail of the man they had
+      dogged so long.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Trembling, terrified, he set his teeth in his bleeding lip, and clenched
+      his gaunt fists: He could not hold his thoughts in leash; could not
+      control the terrifying laughter; hatred blazed like hell-fire scorching
+      the soul in him, searing his aching brain with flames which destroy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the stars
+      through the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the infernal
+      flicker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a voice calling
+      for help&mdash;his own voice&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, striving to
+      pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio had
+      dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holding his
+      breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on the snowy foot,
+      were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upward slowly to the slim
+      and child-like hands&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Oh, God!&rdquo; he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the heart
+      were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he reeled forward
+      and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eyes, he saw the
+      child-like head bend toward him from the slender neck&mdash;saw that the
+      eyes were faintly blue&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mother of God!&rdquo; he screamed, &ldquo;my mind is dying&mdash;my mind is dying!
+      ... We were boys, he and I.... Let God judge him.... Let him be judged...
+      mercifully.... I am worse than he.... There is no hell. I have striven to
+      fashion one&mdash;I have desired to send him thither&mdash;Mother of God&mdash;Cecile&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down close
+      against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold foot.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am sick,&rdquo; he rambled on&mdash;&ldquo;and very tired.... We were boys
+      together, Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him....
+      He was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do.... So
+      young, and straight, and daring.... I would not harm him. Or you,
+      Cecile.... Only I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left&mdash;from
+      being badly hurt&mdash;It never got well. ... And now it is dying of its
+      hurt&mdash;Cecile!&mdash;Mother of God!&mdash;before it dies I do forgive
+      him&mdash;and ask forgiveness&mdash;for Christ&rsquo;s sake&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      VII
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right senses.
+      He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed, then,
+      around at the four shabby walls of his room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Cecile?&rdquo; he said, distinctly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and bent
+      over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her throat.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Dearest?&rdquo; he said, inquiringly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and
+      laid her cheek on it, crying silently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At
+      last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist
+      and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I want&mdash;Graylock,&rdquo; he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer,
+      gazing at him intently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Graylock,&rdquo; he repeated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Not now,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;not today. Rest for a while.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Please,&rdquo; he said, looking up at her trustfully&mdash;&ldquo;Graylock. Now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;When you are well&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am&mdash;well. Please, dear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp
+      hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his eyes
+      from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression,
+      unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was
+      late. She went downstairs to the janitor&rsquo;s quarters where there was a
+      messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them
+      busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them, for it
+      was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was doubtless at
+      its flood.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then she
+      rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness through
+      the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But
+      the memory of Drene&rsquo;s eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a little waiting she got Graylock&rsquo;s apartment. A servant asked her
+      to hold the wire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After an interval she recognized Graylock&rsquo;s voice at the telephone,
+      pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the season.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What are you doing this Christmas night?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Surely you are not
+      all alone there at home?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am rather too old for anything else,&rdquo; he said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But what are you doing? Reading?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;As a matter of fact,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I happened to be cleaning an automatic
+      revolver when you called up.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of
+      celebrating?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;But there is. You are requested to make a call.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;On whom?&rdquo; he asked, quietly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;On Mr. Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      For a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him twice,
+      thinking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his voice came,
+      curiously altered:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Who asked that of me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He is convalescent.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did he ask you to call me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then&mdash;you are with him?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;In his apartment. I came downstairs to the janitor&rsquo;s rooms. I am
+      telephoning from there what he wished me to ask you.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After a pause Graylock said: &ldquo;Is his mind perfectly clear?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Perfectly, now.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He asked for me?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. Will you come?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He asked for me? Tonight? At eleven o&rsquo;clock?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She said: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think he knows even what month it is. He has only been
+      conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christmas night perhaps he
+      might not have disturbed you. But&mdash;will you come?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am afraid it is too late&mdash;to-night.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Tomorrow, then? Shall I tell him?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a silence. She repeated the question. But Graylock&rsquo;s reply was
+      inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of good night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Somewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family and
+      probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in there;
+      there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips. Blessed
+      happiness had come to her in time for Christmas&mdash;a strange and
+      heavenly happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to one who
+      loves, for it had been more than the mere life of this man she had asked
+      of God: it had been his mind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking down
+      at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid it aside
+      again as there came a low knocking at the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still beside
+      the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about singing
+      under her breath. They both heard her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am trying to get well&mdash;to start again&mdash;better&mdash;live more&mdash;nobly.
+      ... Take your chance, too.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;If you wish, Drene.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes. I was not&mdash;very&mdash;well. I had been ill&mdash;very&mdash;a
+      long while ... And you are not to clean the automatic.... Only your
+      own-soul.... Ask help.... You&rsquo;ll get it..... I did.... And&mdash;all that
+      is true&mdash;what we believed&mdash;as boys.... I know. I&rsquo;ve seen. And
+      it&rsquo;s all true&mdash;all true&mdash;what we believed&mdash;as little boys.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a smile
+      in them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good-bye&mdash;Jack,&rdquo; he whispered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock&rsquo;s mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps Drene
+      heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once more at his
+      boyhood friend.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Somewhere&mdash;somebody will straighten out&mdash;all this,&rdquo; he
+      murmured, closing his eyes again: &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t; we can only try&mdash;to
+      straighten out&mdash;ourselves.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Graylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily erect, he
+      turned away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Cecile met him from the studio.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; she said, offering her hand.... &ldquo;And a happy Christmas.... I
+      hope you will not be lonely.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene&rsquo;s bedroom
+      with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and, smiling,
+      she came forward to the bedside.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;It was a terrible dream,&rdquo; he whispered&mdash;&ldquo;all those years. But it was
+      a dream.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;You must dream no more.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No. Come nearer.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      She rested on the bed&rsquo;s edge beside him and laid one hand on his. The
+      other held the holly, but he did not notice it until she offered it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Dear,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;it is Christmas night. And you did not even know
+      it.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      Suddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyes, and he
+      closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that had been vouchsafed
+      to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain his soul.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in the
+      spell of the dream that invaded her&mdash;the exquisite vision of wifehood&mdash;she
+      sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Once more he turned his head and looked at her. Then her slender neck
+      bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Cecile!&rdquo;&mdash;he faltered&mdash;&ldquo;Madonna inviolate!... The woman&mdash;between&mdash;friends&mdash;&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      THE END <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
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diff --git a/8441.txt b/8441.txt
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+++ b/8441.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,2616 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Between Friends
+
+Author: Robert W. Chambers
+
+Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8441]
+Posting Date: July 30, 2009
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN FRIENDS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andre Boutin-Maloney
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+BETWEEN FRIENDS
+
+By Robert W. Chambers
+
+
+1914
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+Like a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and lies down; lying
+there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-calls, and the
+breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscurity of himself.
+
+Through the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cringed his
+bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except the automatic
+pulses which never cease.
+
+Sometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world lies in
+ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.
+
+The things that men live through--and live!
+
+But no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.
+
+He had become very lean by the time it was all over. Gray glinted on his
+temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished as far as
+he was concerned.
+
+An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many
+years. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.
+
+But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had so
+long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange
+and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or
+less--little excursions from the dim privacy of mind and soul--and he
+found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the world once
+more.
+
+Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene
+continued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilder's
+suggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becoming slyly
+impudent.
+
+"And listen to me, Guilder. What the devil's a woman between friends?"
+argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. "You take my best
+girl away from me--"
+
+"But I don't," remarked his partner dryly.
+
+"For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell? No. I
+merely thank you. Why? Because I don't want her if you can get her away.
+That," he added, with satisfaction, "is philosophy. Isn't it, Drene?"
+
+Guilder intervened pleasantly:
+
+"I don't think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I'm sure
+I'm not. Shut up, please."
+
+Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out of a
+round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was modifying.
+
+Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which
+revolved with a rusty squeak.
+
+"If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman the
+world--" began Quair.
+
+"But we don't," interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar to
+his negative character.
+
+"Anyway," insisted Quair, "here's what I think of 'em--"
+
+"My model, yonder," said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, "happens
+to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the
+development of your rather tiresome theory."
+
+The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke, stretched
+her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning glance at
+Drene.
+
+"All right; rest a bit," said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he
+was pinching over the sketch before him.
+
+He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on
+a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into the
+stem, reflectively.
+
+Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had been
+born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over to
+examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had invited.
+
+Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over
+also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it
+belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe.
+
+After a silence:
+
+"It's all right," said Guilder.
+
+Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is true,
+however, that, except for Guilder's habitual restraint, the celebrated
+firm of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyantly, and
+to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.
+
+"She's some girl," added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure,
+and then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on
+the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched
+in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.
+
+"Carpeaux and his eternal group--it's the murderous but inevitable
+standard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the
+photograph on the wall.
+
+"Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair flippantly;
+and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once or twice
+the two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the girl's light,
+untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive to Quair's
+wit. Perhaps Quair's inheritance had been humor, but to some it seemed
+perilously akin to mother-wit.
+
+The pockets of Guilder's loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with linen
+tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over these for
+a while, semi-conscious of Quair's bantering voice and the girl's easily
+provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:
+
+"All right, Guilder," said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated
+architects prepared to evacuate the studio--Quair exhibiting symptoms of
+incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best.
+
+"Drop in on me at the office some time," he suggested to the youthful
+model, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction.
+
+"For luncheon or dinner?" retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
+
+"You may stay to breakfast also--"
+
+"Oh, come on," drawled Guilder, taking his colleague's elbow.
+
+The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then
+celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
+
+For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on
+neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the
+dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the
+squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at intervals.
+
+The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand, and
+mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to the
+chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always seemed
+inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her voice, if
+untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered Drene, nor,
+until the last few days, had he even particularly noticed her blithe
+trilling--as a man a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware of the wild
+birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.
+
+He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind that
+the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
+
+As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint blue
+of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl's careless singing, made for his
+dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.
+
+"May I rest?" she asked at length.
+
+"Certainly, if it's necessary."
+
+"I've brought my lunch. It's twelve," she explained.
+
+He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with slight
+irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to descend.
+
+After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for that,
+and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important to either
+species.
+
+He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said
+something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was
+holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.
+
+When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the
+offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly mechanical
+smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.
+
+"Why don't you ever eat luncheon?" she asked.
+
+"Why should I?" he replied, preoccupied.
+
+"It's bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin."
+
+"Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?" he asked,
+absently.
+
+"Won't you please take this sandwich?"
+
+Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting
+attention again.
+
+"Why the devil do you want me to eat?" he inquired, fishing out his
+empty pipe and filling it.
+
+"You smoke too much. It's bad for you. It will do very queer things to
+the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead of eating
+it."
+
+He yawned.
+
+"Is that so?" he said.
+
+"Certainly it's so. Please take this sandwich."
+
+He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things and
+the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the fingers, placed
+the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as though slightly
+disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe from his left
+hand and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseated herself on
+the lounge beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, she became even more
+uncertain concerning the result of what she had done, and began to view
+with rising alarm the steady gray eyes that were so silently inspecting
+her.
+
+But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself,
+curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his
+hand, then gravely tasted it.
+
+"This will doubtless give me indigestion," he remarked. "Why, Cecile, do
+you squander your wages on nourishment for me?"
+
+"It cost only five cents."
+
+"But why present five cents to me?" "I gave ten to a beggar this
+morning."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Was he grateful?"
+
+"He seemed to be."
+
+"This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I'll not be
+very grateful to you." But he continued eating.
+
+"'The woman tempted me,'" she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
+
+After a moment's survey of her:
+
+"You're one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that
+throng this town and occasionally flit through this profession--aren't
+you?"
+
+"Am I?"
+
+"Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you're one of the
+surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but you
+appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywhere--a pretty
+sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary flash like a
+golden moat afloat in sunshine--and what then?"
+
+She laughed.
+
+"What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you turn
+into?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"You go somewhere, don't you? You change into something, don't you? What
+happens to you, petite Cigale?"
+
+"When?"
+
+"When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes."
+
+"I don't know, Mr. Drene." She broke her chocolate cake into halves and
+laid one on his knee.
+
+"Thanks for further temptation," he said grimly.
+
+"You are welcome. It's good, isn't it?"
+
+"Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him."
+
+She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake,
+with her eyes still fixed on him.
+
+Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered
+absently elsewhere.
+
+"You think a great deal, don't you?" she remarked.
+
+"Don't you?"
+
+"I try not to--too much."
+
+"What?" he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
+
+She shrugged her shoulders:
+
+"What's the advantage of thinking?"
+
+He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish
+eyes, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged as
+usual--was wandering--when she sighed, very lightly, so that he scarcely
+heard it--merely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that, as usual,
+there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicinity, and
+that he lacked the interest to listen to it.
+
+"Thinking," she said, "is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishment
+to a troubled one. So I try not to."
+
+It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had
+uttered an unconscious epigram.
+
+"It sounded like somebody--probably Montaigne. Was it?" he inquired.
+
+"I don't know what you mean."
+
+"Oh. Then it wasn't. You're a funny little girl, aren't you?"
+
+"Yes, rather."
+
+"On purpose?"
+
+"Yes, sometimes."
+
+He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intelligent
+perception of his not too civil badinage.
+
+"And sometimes," he went on, "you're funny when you don't intend to be."
+
+"You are, too, Mr. Drene."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Didn't you know it?"
+
+A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
+
+"No," he said, "I didn't know it."
+
+"But you are. For instance, you don't walk; you stalk. You do what
+novelists make their gloomy heroes do--you stride. It's rather funny."
+
+"Really. And do you find my movements comic?"
+
+She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youthful
+laugh:
+
+"You are really very dramatic--a perfect story-book man. But, you know,
+sometimes they are funny when the author doesn't intend them to be....
+Please don't be angry."
+
+Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a
+loss to understand--unless there lurked under that impudence a trace of
+unflattering truth.
+
+As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of
+self-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; that
+for a while--a long while--a space of time he could not at the moment
+conveniently compute--he had been playing a role merely because he had
+become accustomed to it.
+
+Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that
+part. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy
+had really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged
+from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten
+that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine
+might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.
+
+Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her
+eye--and found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
+
+"You're quite right," he said, smiling easily and naturally; "I am
+unintentionally funny. And I really didn't know it--didn't suspect
+it--until this moment."
+
+"Oh," she said quickly. "I didn't mean--I know you are often unhappy--"
+
+"Nonsense!"
+
+"You are! Anybody can see--and you really do not seem to be very old,
+either--when you smile--"
+
+"I'm not very old," he said, amused. "I'm not unhappy, either. If I ever
+was, the truth is that I've almost forgotten by this time what it was
+all about--"
+
+"A woman," she quoted, "between friends"--and checked herself,
+frightened that she had dared interpret Quair's malice.
+
+He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his
+visage.
+
+"Oh," she faltered, "I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry
+for you so long--"
+
+"Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?"
+
+"It's generally supposed. I don't know anything more than that. But I've
+been--sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing," she said under her breath.
+
+"Is it?" he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
+
+"Don't you think so?"
+
+"I have not thought of it that way, recently.... I haven't thought
+about it at all--for some years.... Have you?" he added, trying to speak
+gravely.
+
+"Oh, yes. I have thought of it," she admitted.
+
+"And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?"
+
+"Yes, it is."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Oh, I don't know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor is
+always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful. It
+usually finishes us--you know."
+
+"Are you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
+
+"I could be. I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on the
+water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking about
+for a towel.
+
+"I'll get you one," he said. When he brought it, she laughed and held
+out her hands to be dried.
+
+"Do you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the towel across
+her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
+
+"I thought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.
+
+"Not in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
+
+Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much in
+demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of the
+Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
+
+Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each separate,
+slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of her hair--"a
+miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered to her. That same
+hair, also, was very popular among painters.
+
+It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
+
+"Are you ready?" grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.
+
+She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
+attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
+unusually lovely ensemble.
+
+She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
+variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine feeling,
+too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental, explosive,
+insinuating--the entire gamut.
+
+She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps, yet
+quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with her own
+curiosity.
+
+She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had
+not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at intervals,
+ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as an excuse, as
+a reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences threatened no
+embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.
+
+She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely
+untempted.
+
+When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
+artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast for
+a role which included singing and dancing.
+
+On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had
+dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her
+professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness confronting
+her.
+
+As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his busy
+hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this day
+had not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From the
+very beginning of their business relations he had remained merely her
+employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, when not
+working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to know him any
+better than when she first laid eyes on him.
+
+Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid,
+sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity
+concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirring
+him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, one way
+or the other.
+
+Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd to
+her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usually
+became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all of
+camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless, professional
+sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the kindly essence of
+personal interest on his part.
+
+He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and
+good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them
+seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too civil
+badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.
+
+He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have thought
+her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for her.
+
+"Do you think me pretty?" she had asked one day, saucily invading one of
+his yawning silences.
+
+"I think you're pretty good," he replied, "as a model. You'd be quite
+perfect if you were also deaf and dumb."
+
+That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight heat
+in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childish
+amazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all that
+morning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entirely
+gratifying to him.
+
+"May I rest?"
+
+"If it's necessary."
+
+She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood
+looking at his work.
+
+"Do you want to know my opinion?" she asked.
+
+"Yes," he said, with unexpected urbanity; "if you are clever enough to
+have an opinion. What is it?"
+
+She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with
+deliberation:
+
+"In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an
+entirely spontaneous and charming creation."
+
+"What!" he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her opinion,
+and with surprise at her mode of expressing it.
+
+"It's quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no
+study; it is pure creation."
+
+He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an
+average and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.
+
+"As though," she continued, "you had laid aside childish things."
+
+"What?" he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expression.
+
+"Academic precision and the respectable excellencies of-the-usual;--you
+have put away childish things and become a man."
+
+"Where did you hear that?" he said bluntly.
+
+"I heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not wholly
+uneducated, although your amiable question insinuates as much."
+
+"I'm not unamiable. Only I didn't suppose--"
+
+"Oh, you never have supposed anything concerning me. So why are you
+surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?"
+
+"I'm sorry--"
+
+"Listen to me. I'm not afraid of you any more. I've been afraid for two
+years. Now, I'm not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You know it. You
+didn't know I knew it; you didn't know I knew anything. And you didn't
+care."
+
+She sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.
+
+"You don't care what I think, what I am, what interests I may have, what
+intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animates me; do
+you? You don't care whether I am ignorant or educated, bad or good, ill
+or well--as long as it does not affect my posing for you; whether I am
+happy or unhappy, whether I--"
+
+"For Heaven's sake--"
+
+"But you don't care!... Do you?"
+
+He was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.
+
+After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass and
+pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.
+
+"It's five o'clock, you know, Drene."
+
+"Yes, certainly."
+
+"Do you want me to-morrow?"
+
+"Yes. Yes, of course."
+
+"You are not offended?"
+
+He did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question in a
+childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And looking down
+into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.
+
+"You little villain!" he said; and caught her wrists. "A lot you care
+whether I am offended!"
+
+She looked away from him, turning her profile. Her expression was
+inscrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague laugh.
+
+"You should have let me alone," he said.
+
+"'The woman tempted me,'" she repeated, still looking away from him. He
+said nothing.
+
+"Good night," she nodded, and turned toward the door.
+
+He went with her, falling into step beside her. One arm slipped around
+her waist as they entered the hallway. They walked slowly to the door.
+He unlatched it, hesitated; she moved one foot forward, and he took a
+step at the same time which brought her across his path so closely that
+contact was unavoidable. And he kissed her.
+
+"Oh," she said. "So you are human after all! I often wondered."
+
+She looked up, trying to laugh, but could not seem to take it as coolly
+as she might have wished to.
+
+"Not that a kiss is very important in these days," she continued, "yet
+it might interest you to hear that a friend of yours rather fancies
+me. He wouldn't like you to do it. But--" She lifted her blue eyes with
+faint malice--"What is a woman between friends?"
+
+"Who is he?"
+
+"Jack Graylock."
+
+Drene remained motionless.
+
+"I haven't encouraged him," she said. "Perhaps that is why."
+
+"Why he fancies you?"
+
+"Why he asked me to marry him. It was the only thing he had not asked."
+
+"He asked that?"
+
+"After he realized it was the only way, I suppose," she said coolly.
+Drene took her into his arms and kissed her deliberately on the mouth.
+Looking up at him she said: "After all, he is your friend, isn't he?"
+
+"A friend of many years. But, as you say, what is a woman between
+friends?"
+
+"I don't know," said the girl. And, still clasped in his arms, she bent
+her head, thoughtfully, considering the question.
+
+And as though she had come to some final conclusion, she raised her
+head, lifted her eyes slowly, and her lips, to the man whose arms
+enfolded her. It was her answer to his question, and her own.
+
+When she had gone, he went back and stood again by the great window,
+watching the cote on a neighboring roof, where the pigeons were
+strutting and coquetting in the last rays of the western sun.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+When she came again to the studio, she was different, subdued, evading,
+avoiding, smiling a little in her flushed diffidence at his gay ease of
+manner--or assumption of both ease and gaiety.
+
+He was inclined to rally her, tease her, but her reticence was not all
+embarrassment. The lightest contact, the slightest caress from him,
+added a seriousness to her face, making it very lovely under its
+heightened color, and strangely childlike.
+
+Model and master they would have remained no longer had it been for him
+to say, he desiring now to make it a favor and concession on her part to
+aid him professionally, she gravely insisting on professionalism as the
+basis of whatever entente might develop between them, as well as the
+only avowed excuse for her presence there alone with him.
+
+"Please. It's respectable," she insisted her agreeable, modulated voice.
+"I had rather the reason for my coming here be business--whatever else
+happens."
+
+"What has happened," he said, balancing a handful of wet clay in
+one hand and looking laughingly up at her, where she stood on the
+model-stand, "is that a pretty girl strolled in here one day and held
+up a mirror to a solemn ass who was stalking theatrically through life.
+That solemn ass is very grateful for the glimpse he had of himself. He
+behaved gratefully, didn't he?"
+
+"Very," she said with a forced smile.
+
+"Do you object to the manner in which he expressed his gratitude?"
+
+She hung her head.
+
+"No," she said.
+
+After a while she raised her eyes, her head still lowered. He was
+working, darkly absorbed as usual in the plastic mass under his fingers.
+
+She watched him curiously, not his hands, now, but his lean, intent
+face, striving to penetrate that masculine mask, trying to understand.
+Varying and odd reflections and emotions possessed her in turn, and
+passed--wonder, bewilderment at herself, at him; a slight sense of fear,
+then a brief and sudden access of shyness, succeeded by the by glow
+of an emotion new and strange and deep. And this, in turn, by vague
+bewilderment again, in which there was both a hint of fear, and a tinge
+of something exquisite.
+
+Within herself she was dimly conscious that a certain gaiety, an
+irresponsibility and lightness had died out in her, perhaps permanently,
+yet leaving no void. What it was that replaced these she could not
+name--she only was conscious that if these had been subdued by a newer
+knowledge, with a newer seriousness, this unaccustomed gravity had left
+her heart no less tender, and had deepened her capacity for emotion
+to depths as profound and unexplored as the sudden mystery of their
+discovery by herself.
+
+Always, now, while she posed, she was looking at him with a still
+intentness, as though he really wore a mask and she, breathlessly
+vigilant, watched for the moment when he might forget and lift it.
+
+But during the weeks that followed, if the mask were indeed only the
+steady preoccupation that his visage wore, she seemed to learn nothing
+more about him when his features lost their dark absorption and he
+caught her eye and smiled. No, the smile revealed nothing except another
+mask under the more serious cast of concentration--only another
+disguise that covered whatever this man might truly be deeper down--this
+masculine and unknown invader of frontiers surrendered ere she had
+understood they were even besieged.
+
+And during these weeks in early spring their characteristics, even
+characters, seemed to have shifted curiously and become reversed; his
+was now the light, irresponsible, half-mocking badinage--almost boyishly
+boisterous at times, as, for instance, when he stepped forward after the
+pose and swung her laughingly from the model-platform to her corner on
+the sofa.
+
+"You pretty and clever little thing," he said, "why are you becoming so
+serious and absent-minded?"
+
+"Am I becoming so?"
+
+"You are. You oughtn't to: you've made a new and completely different
+man of me."
+
+As though that were an admirable achievement, or even of any particular
+importance. And yet she seemed to think it was both of these when,
+resting against him, within the circle of his arm, still shy and silent
+under the breathless poignancy of an emotion which ever seemed to sound
+within her depths unsuspected.
+
+But when he said that she had made a new and completely different man of
+him, she remembered his low-voiced when that change impended as he held
+her by her wrists a moment, then dropped them. He had said, half to
+himself: "You should have let me alone!"
+
+Sometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out for luncheon
+realizing they would never have been seated together in a restaurant had
+she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let him alone; she
+knew that. She tried to wish that she had--tried to regret everything,
+anything; and could not, even when within her the faint sense of alarm
+awoke amid the softly unchangeable unreality of these last six weeks of
+spring.
+
+Was this then really love?--this drifting through alternating dreams
+of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes
+of fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths of
+cloud?
+
+She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only
+that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.
+
+She was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dimly
+understood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was missing--her
+conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died? Were the little,
+inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its disintegration? Or its
+immortal vitality?
+
+Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of its
+loss--dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember nothing to
+be sorry for. And there was so much.
+
+Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and her,
+amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters.
+
+That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was
+a nine days' gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was
+forgotten--as are all wonders--in nine days.
+
+Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the
+tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman's name, and a man's--Drene's
+closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the busy--not that
+the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it quickly,
+having other matters to think about.
+
+Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own condescending
+advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously inflammable attentions
+elsewhere.
+
+He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and
+Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his dapper
+confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first bored, grew
+irritable.
+
+"What are you talking about?" he said sharply.
+
+"I'm talking about Cecile White," continued Quair, looking rather oddly
+at the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. "I didn't suppose
+you could be interested in any woman--not that I mind your interfering
+with any little affair between Cecile and me--"
+
+"There wasn't any."
+
+"I beg your pardon, Drene--"
+
+"There wasn't any!" repeated Drene, with curt contempt. "Don't talk
+about her, anyway."
+
+"You mean I'm not to talk about a common artist's model--"
+
+"Not that way."
+
+"Oh. Is she yours?"
+
+"She isn't anybody's, I fancy. Therefore, let her alone, or I'll throw
+you out of doors."
+
+Quair said to Guilder after they had departed:
+
+"Fancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious basis!
+He's doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what's in it for her?"
+
+"Perhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency."
+
+"Everybody is decent enough to her as far as I know."
+
+"Including yourself?"
+
+"Certainly, including myself," retorted Quair, adding naively: "Besides,
+I knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted."
+
+"Yet you tried it," mused Guilder, entering his big touring car and
+depositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his own
+ponderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the chauffeur,
+then:
+
+"Tried nothing," he said. "A little chaff, that's all. When it comes to
+a man like Jack Graylock going so far as to ask her to marry him, good
+night, nurse! Nothing doing, even for me."
+
+"Even for you," repeated Guilder in his moderate and always modulated
+voice. "Well, if she's escaped you and Graylock, she's beyond any danger
+from Drene, I fancy."
+
+Quair smiled appreciatively, as though a delicate compliment had been
+offered him. Several times on the way to call on Graylock he insisted on
+stopping the car at as many celebrated cafes. Guilder patiently awaited
+him in the car and each time Quair emerged from the cafe bar a little
+more flushed and a trifle jauntier than when he had entered.
+
+He was a man so perfectly attired and so scrupulously fastidious about
+his person that Guilder often speculated as to just why Quair always
+seemed to him a trifle soiled.
+
+Now, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in the
+face, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little, pinched
+nostrils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior member of
+the firm as though the junior member were physically unclean.
+
+"That's about ten drinks since luncheon," he remarked, as the car rolled
+on down Fifth Avenue.
+
+Quair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poked his
+gloved thumb:
+
+"You're a merry old cock, aren't you?" he inquired genially, "--like a
+pig's wrist! If I hadn't the drinking of the entire firm to do, who'd
+ever talk about Guilder and Quair, architects?"
+
+It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when
+"soused." And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he was.
+
+Graylock received them in his office--a big, reckless-eyed, handsome
+man, with Broad Street written all over him and "danger" etched in every
+deepened line of his face.
+
+"Well, how about that business of mine?" he inquired. "It's all right to
+keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match for highballs
+at the Ritz."
+
+"I had to see Drene--that's why we are late," explained Guilder. "We're
+ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you--"
+
+"Drene?" interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a
+curious and staring intensity. "Why drag Drene into an excuse?"
+
+"Because we went to his studio," said Guilder. "Now about letting the
+contracts--"
+
+"Were you at Drene's studio?"
+
+"Yes. He's doing the groups for the new opera for us."
+
+Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:
+
+"Neat little skirt he has up there--that White girl," he remarked,
+seating himself on Graylock's polished table.
+
+A dull flush stained Graylock's cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned on
+Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two thin
+streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.
+
+"Some skirt," he repeated. "And it looks as though old Drene had her
+number--"
+
+Guilder's level voice interrupted:
+
+"The contracts are ready to be--"
+
+But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all the
+time at Quair, said slowly:
+
+"Drene isn't that kind.... Is he?"
+
+"Our kind, you mean?" inquired Quair, with a malice so buried under
+flippancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with Graylock.
+Which amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was not
+sufficient. He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.
+
+"Drene," he said, "is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled on
+their necks--the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them after
+she's turned down everything else they suggest."
+
+Graylock's square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed to grow even
+paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of this man's record
+with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumors which connected
+him so seriously with Cecile White, swung his leg unconcernedly, where
+it dangled over the table's edge, and smiled frankly and knowingly upon
+Graylock:
+
+"There's always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn't
+on the breakfast table. When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock,
+Providence has created a species of man who settles our bills."
+
+He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two
+thin streams through his nose.
+
+"Maybe Drene may marry her himself. But--I don't believe he'll have
+to.... Now, about those contracts--" he affected a yawn, "--go on and
+tell him, Guilder," he added, his words distorted by another yawn.
+
+He stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretched his
+arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had never moved a
+muscle.
+
+"I believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn't you,
+Graylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well--my hat off to old Drene
+if he wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what's a woman
+between friends?"
+
+And he nodded gaily at Graylock and sauntered leisurely to the window.
+
+And kept his back turned, fearful of exploding with laughter in the very
+face of the man who had been staring at him out of pale, unchanging eyes
+so steadily and so long.
+
+Guilder's patient, bored, but moderate voice was raised once more:
+
+"In regard to the letting of these contracts--"
+
+But Graylock, staring at Quair's back, neither heeded nor heard him, for
+his brain was still ringing with the mockery of Quair's words--"What is
+a woman between friends?" And now, for the first time, he was beginning
+to understand what the answer might be.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had begun
+to miss her, after his own fashion--that is, he thought of her when not
+preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when unoccupied.
+
+And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and
+scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he could
+never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper, pocketed it, and
+went out to his dinner.
+
+But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters
+professional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which
+gradually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to see
+her at that particular time.
+
+Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to communicate
+with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering concentration
+which included himself and his career, as well as his work, seemed to
+obliterate even any memory of her existence.
+
+Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book, or
+duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and brain a
+faint pain became apparent--if it could still be called pain, this vague
+ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead years--and at such moments
+he thought of Graylock, and of another; and the partly paralyzed
+emotion, which memory of these two evoked, stirred him finally to think
+of Cecile.
+
+It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next day
+and continue with her what had been begun--an intimacy which depended
+upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct whispered was within
+his own control. But the next day found him at work; models of various
+types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came, posed, were paid, and
+departed; his studies for the groups in collaboration with Guilder and
+Quair were approaching the intensely interesting period--that stage of
+completion where composition has been determined upon and the excitement
+of developing the construction and the technical charm of modeling
+begins.
+
+And evening always found him physically tired and mentally satisfied--or
+perturbed--to the exclusion of such minor interests as life is
+made of--dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and a beloved
+profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room for these or
+thought of these.
+
+He ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteristic
+of creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples, and
+grayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid New
+York summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gaunt, silent,
+darkly absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air until some
+half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of a headache, set
+him in reluctant motion.
+
+He heard of Cecile now and then; Cosby had used her for a figure on
+a fountain destined to embellish the estate of a wealthy young man
+somewhere or other; Greer employed her for the central figure of
+Innocence in his lovely and springlike decoration for some Western
+public edifice. Quair had met her several times at Manhattan Beach with
+various and assorted wealthy young men.
+
+And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying on
+the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging inert
+to the floor above an evening paper fallen there.
+
+"Hello, Guilder," he said, without rising, as the big architect shambled
+loosely through the open doorway.
+
+"How are you, Drene?"
+
+"All right. It's hot."
+
+"There's not a breath of air. It looks like a thunder-storm in the
+west."
+
+He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features with
+a damp handkerchief.
+
+"Drene," he said, "a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a chapel to
+the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We've pinched the job. Can you
+do an altar piece?"
+
+"What sort?"
+
+"They want a Virgin. It's to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
+It's for women to repair to--under certain and natural circumstances."
+
+"I've so much on hand--"
+
+"It's only a single figure-barring the dove. Why don't you do it?"
+
+"There are plenty of other men--"
+
+"They want you. There'll be no difficulty about terms."
+
+Drene said with a shrug:
+
+"Terms are coming to mean less and less to me, Guilder. It costs very
+little for me to live." He turned his gray, tired face. "Look at this
+barn of a place; and go in there and look at my bedroom. I have no use
+for what are known as necessities."
+
+"Still, terms are terms--"
+
+"Oh, yes. A truck may run over me. Even at that, I've enough to live
+life out as I am living it here--between these empty walls--and that
+expanse of glass overhead. That's about all life holds for me--a sheet
+of glass and four empty walls--and a fistfull of wet clay."
+
+"Are you a trifle morbid, Drene?"
+
+"I'm not by any means; I merely prefer to live this way. I have
+sufficient means to live otherwise if I wish. But this is enough of the
+world to suit me, Guilder--and I can go to a noisy restaurant to eat in
+when I'm so inclined--" He laughed a rather mirthless laugh and glanced
+up, catching a peculiar expression in Guilder's eyes.
+
+"You're thinking," said Drene coolly, "what a god I once set up on the
+altar of domesticity. I used to talk a lot once, didn't I?--a hell of
+a clamor I made in eulogy of the domestic virtues. Well, only idiots
+retain the same opinions longer than twenty-four hours. Fixity is
+imbecility; the inconstant alone progress; dissatisfaction is only a
+synonym for intelligence; contentment translated means stagnation..... I
+have changed my opinion concerning the virtues of domesticity."
+
+Guilder said, in his even, moderate voice:
+
+"Your logic is weird, Drene: in one breath you say you have changed your
+opinion; in another that you are content; in another that contentment is
+the fixedness of imbecility--"
+
+Drene, reddening slightly, half rose on one elbow from his couch:
+
+"What I meant was that I change in my convictions from day to day,
+without reproaching myself with inconstancy. What I believed with all my
+heart to be sacred yesterday I find a barrier to-day; and push it aside
+and go on."
+
+"Toward what?"
+
+"I go on, that's all I know--toward sanctuary."
+
+"You mean professionally."
+
+"In every way--ethically--spiritually. The gods of yesterday, too, were
+very real--yesterday."
+
+"Drene, a man may change and progress on his way toward what never
+changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in the beginning;
+they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have no goal."
+
+"Is there a goal?"
+
+"Where are you going, then?"
+
+"Just on."
+
+"In your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors all
+journey."
+
+"Perfection?"
+
+Guilder nodded.
+
+"But," smiled Drene, "no two sculptors ever see it alike."
+
+"It is still Perfection. It is still the goal to the color-blind and
+normal alike, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it. That
+is its only importance; it is The Goal..... In things spiritual the same
+obtains--whether one's vision embraces Nirvana, or the Algonquin Ocean
+of Light, or a pallid Christ half hidden in floating clouds--Drene,
+it is all one, all one. It is not the Goal that changes; only our
+intelligence concerning its existence and its immortality."
+
+Drene lay looking at him:
+
+"You never knew pain--real pain, did you? The world never ended for you,
+did it?"
+
+"In one manner or another we all must be reborn before we can progress."
+
+"That is a cant phrase."
+
+"No; there's truth under the cant. Under all the sleek, smooth, canty
+phrases of ecclesiastic proverb, precept, axiom, and lore, there is
+truth worth the sifting out."
+
+"You are welcome to think so, Guilder."
+
+"You also could come to no other conclusion if you took the trouble to
+investigate."
+
+Drene smiled:
+
+"Morals are no more than folk-ways--merely mental condition consequent
+upon custom. Spiritual beliefs are radically dependant upon folkways
+and the resultant physical and mental condition of the human brain which
+creates everything that has been and that is to be."
+
+"Physiology has proven that no idea, no thought, ever originated within
+the concrete and physical brain."
+
+"I've read of those experiments."
+
+"Then you can't ignore a conclusion."
+
+"I haven't reached a conclusion. Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs."
+
+"That's all that's necessary," said Guilder, gravely, "--to entertain
+some belief, temporary or final." He smiled slightly down at Drene's
+drawn, gray visage.
+
+"You and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we have never
+before talked this way. I did not feel at liberty to assume any intimacy
+with you, even when I wanted to, even when--when you were in trouble--"
+He hesitated.
+
+"Go on," grunted the other. "I'm out of trouble now."
+
+"I just--it's a whimsical notion--no, it's a belief;--I just wanted to
+tell you one or two things concerning my own beliefs--"
+
+"Temporary?"
+
+"I don't know. It doesn't matter; they are beliefs. And this is one: all
+physical and mental ills are created only by our own minds--"
+
+"Christian Science?" sneered Drene.
+
+"Call it what you like," said Guilder serenely. "And call this what you
+like: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief true in
+every detail after death."
+
+"What do you call that?" demanded Drene, amused.
+
+"God knows. It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal. I seem to be
+journeying toward it without more obstacles and more embarrassments to
+encounter than confront the wayfarer who professes any other creed."
+
+After a while Drene sat up on his couch:
+
+"How did all this conversation start?" he asked uneasily.
+
+"It was about the Virgin for that chapel we are going to do..... That's
+part of my belief: those who pray for her intercession will find
+her after death, interceding--" he smiled, "--if any intercession be
+necessary between us and Him who made us."
+
+"And those unlisted millions who importune Mohammed and Buddha?"
+
+"They shall find Mohammed and Buddha, who importune them worthily."
+
+"And--Christ?"
+
+"He bears that name also--He!"
+
+"Oh! And so, spiritually as well as artistically, you believe in the
+Virgin?"
+
+"You also can make a better Virgin if you believe in her otherwise than
+esthetically."
+
+Drene gazed at him incredulously, then, with a shrug:
+
+"When do you want this thing started?"
+
+"Now."
+
+"I can't take it on now."
+
+"I want a sketch pretty soon--the composition. You can have a model of
+the chapel to--morrow. We went on with it as a speculation. Now we've
+clinched the thing. When shall I send it up from the office?"
+
+"I'll look it over, but--"
+
+"And," interrupted Guilder, "you had better get that Miss White for the
+Virgin--before she goes off somewhere out of reach."
+
+Drene looked up somberly:
+
+"I haven't kept in touch with her. I don't know what her engagements may
+be."
+
+"One of her engagements just now seems to be to go about with Graylock,"
+said Guilder.
+
+Drene flushed, but said nothing.
+
+"If he marries her," added Guilder, "as it's generally understood he
+is trying to, the best sculptor's model in town is out of the question.
+Better secure her now."
+
+"He wants to marry her?" repeated Drene, in a curiously still voice.
+
+"He's mad about her. He's abject. It's no secret among his friends. Men
+like that--and of that age--sometimes arrive at such a terminal--men
+with Graylock's record sometimes get theirs. She has given him a run,
+believe me, and he's brought up with a crash against a stone wall. He is
+lying there all doubled up at her feet like a rabbit with a broken back.
+There was nothing left for him to do but lie there. He's lying there
+still, with one of her little feet on his bull neck. All the town knows
+it."
+
+"He wants to marry her," repeated Drene, as though to himself.
+
+"She may not take him at that. They're queer--some women. I suppose
+she'd jump at it if she were not straight. But there's another thing--"
+Guilder looked curiously at Drene. "Some people think she's rather crazy
+about you."
+
+Drene gazed into space.
+
+"But that wouldn't hurt her," added Guilder, in his calm, pleasant
+voice. "She's a straight little thing--white and straight. She could
+come to no harm through a man like you."
+
+Drene continued to stare at space.
+
+"So," continued the other, confident, "when she recovers from a natural
+and childlike infatuation for you she'll marry somebody... Possibly even
+such a man as Graylock might make her happy. You can't ever tell about
+such men at the eleventh hour."
+
+Drene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his face.
+
+"Aren't you pretty damned charitable?"
+
+"Charitable? Well, I--I'm so inclined, I fancy."
+
+"You'd be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?"
+
+"I did not say so. I am no judge of men. No man knows enough to condemn
+souls."
+
+Drene looked at him:
+
+"Well, I'll tell you something. I know enough to do it. I had rather
+damn my soul--and hers, too--than see her marry the man you have named.
+It would be worth it to me."
+
+After a strained silence, Guilder said:
+
+"There is a mode of dealing with those who have injured you, which is
+radically different--"
+
+"I deal with such people in my own fashion!"
+
+"But, after all, the infamy is Graylock's. Why oblige him by sharing it
+with him?"
+
+"Do you know what he did to me and mine?"
+
+"A few of us know," said Guilder, gently, "--your old friends."
+
+There came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene's eyes:
+
+"I'll take your commission for that altar piece," he said.
+
+"What is it? An Annunciation?"
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by the
+middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine until five;
+every evening they had dined together at the seashore or other suburban
+and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer entertainment in
+town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings together in his studio,
+chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes discussing he work in hand
+or other subjects of he moment, even topics covering a wider and more
+varied range than he had ever before discussed with any woman.
+
+He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had
+been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to have
+become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times, smoothed
+out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.
+
+If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety had
+been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something duller,
+his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in her surprised
+and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and delightful
+transfiguration.
+
+At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from him,
+from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of absence;
+and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little, as always,
+when in contact with him.
+
+But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
+reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her pretty
+hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and released it.
+
+From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for
+a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the
+night's parting.
+
+Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease with
+him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of isolation
+to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.
+
+Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man, such
+a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such kindness, such
+patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such virile sense and
+sympathy.
+
+And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
+disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
+
+He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship, wholly,
+heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the moment;
+and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in the same
+fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself to him by
+degrees as their comradeship became deliciously unembarrassed.
+
+He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat
+there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle and
+fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and sometimes
+she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which she was
+embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in the
+stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite, as
+though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into her
+half-dreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she opened her
+eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.
+
+But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window from
+the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on whimpering
+wings for a moment and then sheered out into the sunlight.
+
+They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
+particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was
+that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he
+not interrupting.
+
+Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something
+of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical career determined
+upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of
+destitution--the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter
+who employed models--not anything unusual, not even dramatic.
+
+He nodded as she ended:
+
+"Have you saved anything?"
+
+"A hundred dollars."
+
+"That's fine."
+
+She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
+
+"You are thinking," he said, "that youth is flying."
+
+She smiled wistfully.
+
+"Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too."
+
+She nodded.
+
+"You could have married."
+
+"Why?" she asked, troubled.
+
+"To obtain the means for a musical education."
+
+She gazed at him in amazement, then: "I could go out on the street, too,
+as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful."
+
+"Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy," he said.
+She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden
+table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond--Graylock's
+light eyes riveted upon them both.
+
+"You know," he said, under his breath, "that I shall not marry you.
+But--would you care to begin your studies again?"
+
+There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until
+the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her
+lip tremble.
+
+"I had not thought you meant to ask me--that. I do not quite understand
+what you mean."
+
+"I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?"
+
+"I was not sure you cared--enough--"
+
+"Do you--for me?"
+
+"Before I say that I do--care for you--" she began, tremulously--"tell
+me that I have nothing to fear--"
+
+Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who
+stared back at him.
+
+Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
+beauty of her.
+
+"I'm going to tell you something," he said. "Love is no more wonderful
+than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and
+not as strong."
+
+"What!" she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.
+
+"And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I
+have, I have devised to you--in case I step out--suddenly--"
+
+He paused, hesitated, then:
+
+"Also I desire you to hear something else," he went on. "This is the
+proper time for you to hear it, I think--now--to-night--"
+
+He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.
+
+"There was a woman," he said--"She happened to be my wife. Also there
+was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward
+she died--abroad. I believe he was there at the time--Kept up a
+semblance--But he never married her.... And I do not intend to
+marry--you."
+
+After a moment: "And that," she whispered, "is why you once said to me
+that I should have let you alone."
+
+"Did I say that to you?"
+
+"Yes." She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: "But if you care
+for me--I do not regret that I did not let you alone."
+
+"I shall not marry you."
+
+Her lip trembled but she smiled.
+
+"That is nothing new to me," she said. "Only one man has offered that."
+
+"Why didn't you take him?" he asked, with an ugly laugh.
+
+"I couldn't. I cared for you."
+
+"And now," he said, "are you afraid of me?"
+
+"Yes--a little."
+
+He leaned forward suddenly, "You'd better steer clear of me!" Her
+startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.
+
+"Fair warning!" he added: "look out for yourself." Everything that was
+brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features
+so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised
+look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.
+
+"You're taking chances from now on," he said. "I told you once to let me
+alone. You'd better do it now. And--" he stared at the distant man--"I
+told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I've waited a long
+time to strike. Even now it isn't in me to do it as I have meant to
+do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I'll strike in the
+old-fashioned way, and end it--to-night."
+
+Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with
+his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was
+doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in
+silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.
+
+It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the
+shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing
+his ghastly face.
+
+"Something snapped"--he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;--"I
+care very deeply for you. I--they'll make over to you--what I have. You
+can study on it--live on it, modestly--"
+
+"W-what is the matter? Are you ill?" she stammered, white and
+frightened.
+
+But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep
+away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an
+opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.
+
+When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he
+thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in--leaving
+the door into the hallway open--and straight on across the room to his
+desk.
+
+He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still
+turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the
+threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and
+then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.
+
+And so they stood alone together after many years.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+Graylock looked at Drene's heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in
+it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily enough:
+
+"I'd like to say a word or two--if you'll give me time." And, as Drene
+made no reply;--"You're quite right: This business of ours should be
+finished one way or another. I can't stand it any longer."
+
+"In that case," remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, "I may
+postpone it--to find out how much you can stand." He dropped his right
+hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all the
+while:
+
+"What do you want here anyway?"
+
+"I fancy that you have already guessed."
+
+"Maybe. All the same, what do you want?"--fumbling with his bulging
+pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.
+
+Graylock's worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon: he
+stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa,
+his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.
+
+But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
+overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;--otherwise
+gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a
+narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.
+
+"It's a long time, Drene."
+
+Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
+
+Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
+armchair toward him and seated himself.
+
+"It's many years," repeated Graylock. "I expected you to do something
+before this."
+
+"Were you uneasy?" sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that
+Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who
+deals a premature and useless blow.
+
+He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as
+though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock.
+
+"I suppose you'll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came
+here," said Graylock.
+
+"Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or
+do?"
+
+The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his
+knees.
+
+"Drene," he said, in a low voice, "don't strike at me through this young
+girl."
+
+Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly.
+
+"Are you in love with her?"
+
+"Yes.... You know it."
+
+Drene said, still laughing: "It's the common rumor. You may imagine it
+amuses your friends--if you have any left."
+
+Graylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great room:
+
+"Don't harm her, Drene. It is not necessary. I shall never see her
+again--if that will content you."
+
+Drene laughed: "I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I never saw
+her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... My wife. And
+when she died, still my wife. There was no relief--no relief."
+
+Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands and
+stared at nothing:
+
+"I know," he said. "I understand now. I am here to-night to pay the
+reckoning."
+
+"You can't pay it."
+
+"No, not the whole score. There's another bill, I suppose, waiting for
+me--somewhere. But I can settle my indebtedness to you--"
+
+"How?"
+
+"That's up to you, Drene."
+
+"How?" repeated Drene, violently.
+
+Graylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene's sagging
+pocket: "That way if you like. Or," he added, "There is a harder
+punishment."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"To give her up."
+
+"Yes," said Drene, "that is harder. But I can make it even harder than
+that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let you
+live through it."
+
+He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and
+leisurely pushed the lever to "safe."
+
+He said: "To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a lifer.
+You know what you are while you're alive; maybe you'd forget if you were
+dead. I--"
+
+He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his knee;
+and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each other. And
+when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic.
+
+"If I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently." He
+shot an ugly look at Graylock: "I don't know about you, either. You're a
+rat. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant. And in that
+case you'd get away--if it's true that the eleventh hour is not too
+late.... If it's true that Christ is merciful.... So I'll take no
+chances of a getaway. You might fool me--one way or another--if you were
+dead."
+
+Graylock lifted his head from his hands: "I don't know how much of the
+other debt I've already paid, Drene. But I've paid heavily since I knew
+her--if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she cared for
+you, and when I realized that you meant to strike me through her--I have
+paid, heavily.... Yet, if you were honestly in love with her--"
+
+"Is that any of your damned business?"
+
+"She's only a child--"
+
+"You rat! That's what's coming to you!"
+
+"If you say so. But what is coming to her, Drene?"
+
+"Continue to guess. But I know you. It's yourself you're sorry for and
+what you'll have to endure--live through. That's what you can't stand,
+and remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will make earth
+a living hell for you; never a second, day or night, will you be able
+to forget--if you really do love her.... And I believe you do--I don't
+understand how a thing like you can love--but it seems it can."
+
+After a silence Graylock said: "You don't care if you damn yourself?"
+
+"It's worth it to me."
+
+"Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as I
+am?" Drene's gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in silence.
+
+"Don't you care what you do to her?" asked Graylock, unsteadily. "It's a
+viler business than that for which you are punishing me."
+
+For a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on his knees.
+And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: "It's bad enough either
+way for me, Drene. I'll do what you wish in the matter. I'll leave
+the country; I'll stay; whichever you say. Or," he said with a ghastly
+smile, "I'll clean out that automatic for you to-night--if you'll marry
+her."
+
+Drene looked up, slowly:
+
+"What did you say?"
+
+"I said that I'd clean out your automatic for you--to-night--if you
+wish.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In my own rooms--if it is to be an accident."
+
+"Do you offer--"
+
+"Yes; if you'll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I'll take your
+word."
+
+"And then you'll be out of your misery, you damned coward!"
+
+"God knows.... But I think not," said Graylock, under his breath.
+
+Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it,
+considering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer noticing
+the other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the wall where a
+calendar hung.
+
+He stood for a while looking at it absently. After a few moments he
+stepped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then one by
+one tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the month marked
+December, Graylock watching him all the while.
+
+"I think it happened on Christmas," remarked Drene turning toward the
+other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.
+
+Graylock's head bent slightly.
+
+"Very well. Suppose about eleven o'clock on Christmas night you give
+your automatic a thorough cleaning.
+
+"If you say so."
+
+"You have one?"
+
+"I shall buy one."
+
+"Didn't you come here armed?"
+
+"No."
+
+Drene looked at him very intently. But Graylock had never been a liar.
+After a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the weapon under
+the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:
+
+"All right. You can go."
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+He wrote to Cecile once:
+
+Hereafter keep clear of men like Graylock and like me. We're both of a
+stripe--the same sort under our skins. I've known him all my life. It
+all depends upon the opportunity, the circumstances, and the woman. And,
+what is a woman between friends--between such friends as Graylock and I
+once were--or between the sort of friends we have now become? Keep clear
+of such men as we are. We were boys together.
+
+
+For a week or two he kept his door locked and lived on what the janitor
+provided for him, never going out of the studio at all.
+
+He did no work, although there were several unexecuted commissions
+awaiting his attention and a number of sketches, clay studies, and one
+marble standing around the studio in various stages of progress. The
+marble was the Annunciation. The head and throat and slender hands were
+completed, and one slim naked foot.
+
+Sometimes he wandered from one study to the next, vague-eyed, standing
+for a long time before each, staring, lost in thought. Sometimes, in the
+evening he read, choosing a book at random among the motley collection
+in a corner case--a dusty, soiled assortment of books, ephemeral novels
+of the moment, ponderous volumes which are in everybody's library but
+which nobody reads, sets of histories, memoirs, essays, beautifully
+bound and once cared for, but now dirty from neglect--jetsam from a
+wrecked home.
+
+There had been a time when law, order and neatness formed the basis
+of Drene's going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise,
+fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of beautiful
+things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol that suggested home and
+hearth and family.
+
+But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye,
+something else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaos,
+indifferent to all that had formerly been a part of him, a silent
+emotionless, burnt out thing, callous to all that he had once cared for.
+
+Yet something of what he had been must have remained latent within him
+for with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his clay and
+chiseled his marble; and there must have been in him something to
+express, for the beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had set him
+high among the highest in his profession.
+
+Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so
+that it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow sears,
+rendering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow remains under
+the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that is noble, hardening
+all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving a devil behind
+it--fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.
+
+Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was
+becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious of
+it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding that
+although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding, and very,
+very quiet.
+
+And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even
+himself--that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an instant
+by a young girl's gaiety--and with a smile, half-responsive, on his own
+unaccustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same instant, that the
+man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly in love with her.
+
+And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and that
+there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and what
+perhaps was love.
+
+Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself still
+hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it possible?
+If he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he still strike and
+reach him through the woman for whose sake he, Graylock, was going to
+step out of things?
+
+That occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody who could
+tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether the soul
+survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, could a living
+man add anything to its torments for his enemy's benefit?
+
+One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was
+feeling quite well.
+
+"Yes" said Drene, "I am well."
+
+The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he
+mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own quarters
+in many weeks.
+
+Drene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."
+
+But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,
+wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his days.
+
+What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep? Did
+he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever suspected
+him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled his final
+part of the bargain.
+
+For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock was
+thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is in good
+physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the very second
+how many seconds of life remain for him?
+
+Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night.
+
+In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in imagination.
+
+Day after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night after
+night, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues at
+midday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see what
+expression this man wore, what was imprinted on his features;--obsessed
+by a desire to learn what he might be thinking--with death drawing
+nearer.
+
+But Drene, in the body, had never stirred from his own chilly room--a
+gaunt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, half-clothed, huddled all day in his
+chair brooding above his bitten nails, or flung starkly across his couch
+at night staring at the stars through the dirty crust of glass above.
+
+One night in December when the stars were all staring steadily back at
+him, and his thoughts were out somewhere in the darkness following his
+enemy, he heard somebody laughing in the room.
+
+For a while he lay very still, listening; but when he realized that the
+laughter was his own he sat up, pressing his temples between hot and
+trembling fingers.
+
+It seemed to silence the laughter: terror subsided to a tremulous
+apprehension--as though he had been on the verge of something horrible
+sinking into it for a moment--but had escaped.
+
+Again he found himself thinking of Graylock, and presently he laughed;
+then frightened, checked himself. But his fevered brain had been afire
+too long; he lay fighting with his thoughts to hold them in leash lest
+they slip out into the night like blood hounds on the trail of the man
+they had dogged so long.
+
+Trembling, terrified, he set his teeth in his bleeding lip, and clenched
+his gaunt fists: He could not hold his thoughts in leash; could not
+control the terrifying laughter; hatred blazed like hell-fire scorching
+the soul in him, searing his aching brain with flames which destroy.
+
+In the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the stars
+through the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the infernal
+flicker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a voice
+calling for help--his own voice--
+
+Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, striving to
+pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.
+
+Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio had
+dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holding his
+breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on the snowy
+foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upward slowly to
+the slim and child-like hands--
+
+"Oh, God!" he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.
+
+For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the
+heart were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he reeled
+forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eyes, he saw
+the child-like head bend toward him from the slender neck--saw that the
+eyes were faintly blue--
+
+"Mother of God!" he screamed, "my mind is dying--my mind is dying! ...
+We were boys, he and I.... Let God judge him.... Let him be judged...
+mercifully.... I am worse than he.... There is no hell. I have
+striven to fashion one--I have desired to send him thither--Mother of
+God--Cecile--"
+
+Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down
+close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold
+foot.
+
+"I am sick," he rambled on--"and very tired.... We were boys together,
+Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him.... He was so
+handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do.... So young, and
+straight, and daring.... I would not harm him. Or you, Cecile.... Only
+I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left--from being
+badly hurt--It never got well. ... And now it is dying of its
+hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before it dies I do forgive him--and ask
+forgiveness--for Christ's sake--"
+
+Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
+senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed,
+then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.
+
+"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.
+
+The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
+bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her
+throat.
+
+"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.
+
+Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and
+laid her cheek on it, crying silently.
+
+As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall.
+At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.
+
+The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was
+moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent
+over him.
+
+"I want--Graylock," he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing
+at him intently.
+
+"Graylock," he repeated.
+
+"Not now," she murmured, "not today. Rest for a while."
+
+"Please," he said, looking up at her trustfully--"Graylock. Now."
+
+"When you are well--"
+
+"I am--well. Please, dear."
+
+For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp
+hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his
+eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression,
+unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.
+
+So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was
+late. She went downstairs to the janitor's quarters where there was a
+messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them
+busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them,
+for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was
+doubtless at its flood.
+
+So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then
+she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness
+through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven.
+
+As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But
+the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her.
+
+After a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment. A servant asked her
+to hold the wire.
+
+After an interval she recognized Graylock's voice at the telephone,
+pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the season.
+
+"What are you doing this Christmas night?" she asked. "Surely you are
+not all alone there at home?"
+
+"I am rather too old for anything else," he said.
+
+"But what are you doing? Reading?"
+
+"As a matter of fact," he said, "I happened to be cleaning an automatic
+revolver when you called up."
+
+"What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea of
+celebrating?"
+
+"There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight."
+
+"But there is. You are requested to make a call."
+
+"On whom?" he asked, quietly.
+
+"On Mr. Drene."
+
+For a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him twice,
+thinking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his voice
+came, curiously altered:
+
+"Who asked that of me?"
+
+"Mr. Drene."
+
+"Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear."
+
+"He is convalescent."
+
+"Did he ask you to call me?"
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"Then--you are with him?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In his apartment. I came downstairs to the janitor's rooms. I am
+telephoning from there what he wished me to ask you."
+
+After a pause Graylock said: "Is his mind perfectly clear?"
+
+"Perfectly, now."
+
+"He asked for me?"
+
+"Yes. Will you come?"
+
+"He asked for me? Tonight? At eleven o'clock?"
+
+She said: "I don't think he knows even what month it is. He has only
+been conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christmas night
+perhaps he might not have disturbed you. But--will you come?"
+
+"I am afraid it is too late--to-night."
+
+"Tomorrow, then? Shall I tell him?"
+
+There was a silence. She repeated the question. But Graylock's reply was
+inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of good night.
+
+Somewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family and
+probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in there;
+there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.
+
+The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips. Blessed
+happiness had come to her in time for Christmas--a strange and heavenly
+happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to one who loves,
+for it had been more than the mere life of this man she had asked of
+God: it had been his mind.
+
+He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking
+down at him.
+
+After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid it
+aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.
+
+Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still
+beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about
+singing under her breath. They both heard her.
+
+Drene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak:
+
+"I am trying to get well--to start again--better--live more--nobly. ...
+Take your chance, too."
+
+"If you wish, Drene."
+
+"Yes. I was not--very--well. I had been ill--very--a long while ...
+And you are not to clean the automatic.... Only your own-soul.... Ask
+help.... You'll get it..... I did.... And--all that is true--what
+we believed--as boys.... I know. I've seen. And it's all true--all
+true--what we believed--as little boys."
+
+He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a
+smile in them.
+
+"Good-bye--Jack," he whispered.
+
+Graylock's mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps Drene
+heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once more at his
+boyhood friend.
+
+"Somewhere--somebody will straighten out--all this," he murmured,
+closing his eyes again: "We can't; we can only try--to straighten
+out--ourselves."
+
+Graylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily erect, he
+turned away.
+
+Cecile met him from the studio.
+
+"Good night," she said, offering her hand.... "And a happy Christmas....
+I hope you will not be lonely."
+
+He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.
+
+For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene's bedroom
+with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.
+
+After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and, smiling,
+she came forward to the bedside.
+
+"It was a terrible dream," he whispered--"all those years. But it was a
+dream."
+
+"You must dream no more."
+
+"No. Come nearer."
+
+She rested on the bed's edge beside him and laid one hand on his. The
+other held the holly, but he did not notice it until she offered it.
+
+"Dear," she whispered, "it is Christmas night. And you did not even know
+it."
+
+Suddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyes, and
+he closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that had been
+vouchsafed to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain his soul.
+
+After a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in
+the spell of the dream that invaded her--the exquisite vision of
+wifehood--she sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.
+
+Once more he turned his head and looked at her. Then her slender neck
+bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue--
+
+"Cecile!"--he faltered--"Madonna inviolate!... The
+woman--between--friends--"
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+#5 in our series by Robert W. Chambers
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
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+Title: Between Friends
+
+Author: Robert W. Chambers
+
+Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8441]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on July 11, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN FRIENDS ***
+
+
+
+
+This eBook was produced by Andre Boutin-Maloney of Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada.
+
+
+
+
+
+Between Friends
+
+by Robert W. Chambers
+
+
+
+1914
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+Like a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and lies down;
+lying there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-calls,
+and the breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscurity
+of himself.
+
+Through the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cringed
+his bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except the
+automatic pulses which never cease.
+
+Sometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world lies
+in ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.
+
+The things that men live through--and live!
+
+But no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.
+
+He had become very lean by the time it was all over.  Gray glinted
+on his temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished
+as far as he was concerned.
+
+An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many
+years. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.
+
+But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had
+so long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange
+and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or
+less--little excursions from the dim privacy of mind and soul--and
+he found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the
+world once more.
+
+Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene
+continued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilder's
+suggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becoming
+slyly impudent.
+
+"And listen to me, Guilder.  What the devil's a woman between
+friends?" argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. "You
+take my best girl away from me--"
+
+"But I don't," remarked his partner dryly.
+
+"For the sake of argument, you do.  What happens?  Do I raise hell?
+No. I merely thank you. Why? Because I don't want her if you can get
+her away. That," he added, with satisfaction, "is philosophy. Isn't
+it, Drene?"
+
+Guilder intervened pleasantly:
+
+"I don't think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I'm
+sure I'm not. Shut up, please."
+
+Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out
+of a round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was
+modifying.
+
+Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which
+revolved with a rusty squeak.
+
+"If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman
+the world--" began Quair.
+
+"But we don't," interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar
+to his negative character.
+
+"Anyway," insisted Quair, "here's what I think of 'em--"
+
+"My model, yonder," said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, "happens
+to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the
+development of your rather tiresome theory."
+
+The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke,
+stretched her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning
+glance at Drene.
+
+"All right; rest a bit," said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax
+he was pinching over the sketch before him.
+
+He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on
+a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into
+the stem, reflectively.
+
+Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had
+been born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over
+to examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had
+invited.
+
+Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked
+over also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group,
+where it belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his
+empty pipe.
+
+After a silence:
+
+"It's all right," said Guilder.
+
+Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy.  It is
+true, however, that, except for Guilder's habitual restraint, the
+celebrated firm of architects was inclined to express themselves
+flamboyantly, and to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.
+
+"She's some girl," added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled
+figure, and then half turning to include the model, who had seated
+herself on the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the
+composition sketched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.
+
+"Carpeaux and his eternal group--it's the murderous but inevitable
+standard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the
+photograph on the wall.
+
+"Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair
+flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the
+model. Once or twice the two others, consulting before the wax
+group, heard the girl's light, untroubled laughter behind their
+backs gaily responsive to Quair's wit. Perhaps Quair's inheritance
+had been humor, but to some it seemed perilously akin to mother-wit.
+
+The pockets of Guilder's loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with
+linen tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over
+these for a while, semi-conscious of Quair's bantering voice and the
+girl's easily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:
+
+"All right, Guilder," said Drene briefly.  And the firm of
+celebrated architects prepared to evacuate the studio--Quair
+exhibiting symptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to
+be at his best.
+
+"Drop in on me at the office some time," he suggested to the
+youthful model, in a gracious tone born of absolute
+self-satisfaction.
+
+"For luncheon or dinner?" retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
+
+"You may stay to breakfast also--"
+
+"Oh, come on," drawled Guilder, taking his colleague's elbow.
+
+The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then
+celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
+
+For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on
+neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the
+dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the
+squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at
+intervals.
+
+The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand,
+and mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to
+the chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always
+seemed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her
+voice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered
+Drene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly
+noticed her blithe trilling--as a man a field, preoccupied, is
+scarcely aware of the wild birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.
+
+He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind
+that the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
+
+As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint
+blue of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl's careless singing, made
+for his dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.
+
+"May I rest?" she asked at length.
+
+"Certainly, if it's necessary."
+
+"I've brought my lunch.  It's twelve," she explained.
+
+He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with
+slight irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to
+descend.
+
+After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating.  Except for
+that, and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important
+to either species.
+
+He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said
+something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was
+holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.
+
+When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the
+offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly
+mechanical smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.
+
+"Why don't you ever eat luncheon?" she asked.
+
+"Why should I?" he replied, preoccupied.
+
+"It's bad for you not to.  Besides, you are growing thin."
+
+"Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?" he asked,
+absently.
+
+"Won't you please take this sandwich?"
+
+Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting
+attention again.
+
+"Why the devil do you want me to eat?" he inquired, fishing out his
+empty pipe and filling it.
+
+"You smoke too much.  It's bad for you.  It will do very queer
+things to the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon
+instead of eating it."
+
+He yawned.
+
+"Is that so?" he said.
+
+"Certainly it's so.  Please take this sandwich."
+
+He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things
+and the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the
+fingers, placed the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh
+as though slightly disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched
+the pipe from his left hand and tossed it upon the table. When she
+had reseated herself on the lounge beside her pasteboard box of
+luncheon, she became even more uncertain concerning the result of
+what she had done, and began to view with rising alarm the steady
+gray eyes that were so silently inspecting her.
+
+But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself,
+curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his
+hand, then gravely tasted it.
+
+"This will doubtless give me indigestion," he remarked. "Why,
+Cecile, do you squander your wages on nourishment for me?"
+
+"It cost only five cents."
+
+"But why present five cents to me?" "I gave ten to a beggar this
+morning."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Was he grateful?"
+
+"He seemed to be."
+
+"This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I'll
+not be very grateful to you." But he continued eating.
+
+"'The woman tempted me,'" she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
+
+After a moment's survey of her:
+
+"You're one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that
+throng this town and occasionally flit through this
+profession--aren't you?"
+
+"Am I?"
+
+"Yes.  Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you're one of
+the surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but
+you appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even
+everywhere--a pretty sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a
+momentary flash like a golden moat afloat in sunshine--and what
+then?"
+
+She laughed.
+
+"What then?  What becomes of you?  Where do you go?  What do you
+turn into?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"You go somewhere, don't you?  You change into something, don't you?
+What happens to you, petite Cigale?"
+
+"When?"
+
+"When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes."
+
+"I don't know, Mr. Drene." She broke her chocolate cake into halves
+and laid one on his knee.
+
+"Thanks for further temptation," he said grimly.
+
+"You are welcome.  It's good, isn't it?"
+
+"Excellent.  Adam liked the apple, too.  But it raised hell with
+him."
+
+She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her
+cake, with her eyes still fixed on him.
+
+Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered
+absently elsewhere.
+
+"You think a great deal, don't you?" she remarked.
+
+"Don't you?"
+
+"I try not to--too much."
+
+"What?" he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
+
+She shrugged her shoulders:
+
+"What's the advantage of thinking?"
+
+He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish
+eyes, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged
+as usual--was wandering--when she sighed, very lightly, so that he
+scarcely heard it--merely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that,
+as usual, there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her
+vicinity, and that he lacked the interest to listen to it.
+
+"Thinking," she said, "is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a
+punishment to a troubled one. So I try not to."
+
+It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had
+uttered an unconscious epigram.
+
+"It sounded like somebody--probably Montaigne. Was it?" he inquired.
+
+"I don't know what you mean."
+
+"Oh.  Then it wasn't.  You're a funny little girl, aren't you?"
+
+"Yes, rather."
+
+"On purpose?"
+
+"Yes, sometimes."
+
+He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with
+intelligent perception of his not too civil badinage.
+
+"And sometimes," he went on, "you're funny when you don't intend to
+be."
+
+"You are, too, Mr. Drene."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Didn't you know it?"
+
+A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
+
+"No," he said, "I didn't know it."
+
+"But you are.  For instance, you don't walk; you stalk.  You do what
+novelists make their gloomy heroes do--you stride. It's rather
+funny."
+
+"Really.  And do you find my movements comic?"
+
+She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless,
+youthful laugh:
+
+"You are really very dramatic--a perfect story-book man. But, you
+know, sometimes they are funny when the author doesn't intend them
+to be. . . . Please don't be angry."
+
+Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a
+loss to understand--unless there lurked under that impudence a trace
+of unflattering truth.
+
+As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of
+selfillumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor;
+that for a while--a long while--a space of time he could not at the
+moment conveniently compute--he had been playing a role merely
+because he had become accustomed to it.
+
+Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that
+part. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His
+tragedy had really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he
+had emerged from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he
+had forgotten that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which
+in the sunshine might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought
+him funny.
+
+Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her
+eye--and found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
+
+"You're quite right," he said, smiling easily and naturally; "I am
+unintentionally funny. And I really didn't know it--didn't suspect
+it--until this moment."
+
+"Oh," she said quickly. "I didn't mean--I know you are often
+unhappy--"
+
+"Nonsense!"
+
+"You are! Anybody can see--and you really do not seem to be very
+old, either--when you smile--"
+
+"I'm not very old," he said, amused. "I'm not unhappy, either.  If I
+ever was, the truth is that I've almost forgotten by this time what
+it was all about--"
+
+"A woman," she quoted, "between friends"--and checked herself,
+frightened that she had dared interpret Quair's malice.
+
+He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his
+visage.
+
+"Oh," she faltered, "I was not saucy, only sorry. . . .  I have been
+sorry for you so long--"
+
+"Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my
+career?"
+
+"It's generally supposed.  I don't know anything more than that.
+But I've been--sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing," she said under
+her breath.
+
+"Is it?" he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
+
+"Don't you think so?"
+
+"I have not thought of it that way, recently. . . .  I haven't
+thought about it at all--for some years. . . . Have you?" he added,
+trying to speak gravely.
+
+"Oh, yes.  I have thought of it," she admitted.
+
+"And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?"
+
+"Yes, it is."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Oh, I don't know.  A girl usually loves the wrong man.  To be poor
+is always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very
+dreadful. It usually finishes us--you know."
+
+"Are you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
+
+"I could be.  I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on the
+water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking
+about for a towel.
+
+"I'll get you one," he said.  When he brought it, she laughed and
+held out her hands to be dried.
+
+"Do you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the towel
+across her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
+
+"I thought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.
+
+"Not in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
+
+Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy.  She was much
+in demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of
+the Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
+
+Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each
+separate, slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of
+her hair--"a miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered
+to her. That same hair, also, was very popular among painters.
+
+  It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
+
+"Are you ready?" grunted Drene.  Work presently recommenced.
+
+She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
+attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
+unusually lovely ensemble.
+
+She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
+variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine
+feeling, too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental,
+explosive, insinuating--the entire gamut.
+
+She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps,
+yet quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with
+her own curiosity.
+
+She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had
+not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at
+intervals, ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as
+an excuse, as a reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences
+threatened no embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.
+
+She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely
+untempted.
+
+When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
+artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast
+for a role which included singing and dancing.
+
+On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had
+dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her
+professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness
+confronting her.
+
+As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his
+busy hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that
+this day had not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations.
+From the very beginning of their business relations he had remained
+merely her employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or,
+when not working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to
+know him any better than when she first laid eyes on him.
+
+Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid,
+sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity
+concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in
+stirring him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to
+herself, one way or the other.
+
+Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her.  It seemed odd
+to her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day,
+usually became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at
+all of camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless,
+professional sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the
+kindly essence of personal interest on his part.
+
+He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and
+good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them
+seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too
+civil badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.
+
+He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have
+thought her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for
+her.
+
+"Do you think me pretty?" she had asked one day, saucily invading
+one of his yawning silences.
+
+"I think you're pretty good," he replied, "as a model.  You'd be
+quite perfect if you were also deaf and dumb."
+
+That had been nearly a year ago.  She thought of it now, a slight
+heat in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost
+childish amazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted
+all that morning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless
+entirely gratifying to him.
+
+"May I rest?"
+
+"If it's necessary."
+
+She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood
+looking at his work.
+
+"Do you want to know my opinion?" she asked.
+
+"Yes," he said, with unexpected urbanity; "if you are clever enough
+to have an opinion. What is it?"
+
+She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with
+deliberation:
+
+"In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an
+entirely spontaneous and charming creation."
+
+"What!" he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her
+opinion, and with surprise at her mode of expressing it.
+
+"It's quite true.  That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no
+study; it is pure creation."
+
+He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an
+average and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.
+
+"As though," she continued, "you had laid aside childish things."
+
+"What?" he asked, surprised again at the authority of the
+expression.
+
+"Academic precision and the respectable excellencies
+of-the-usual;--you have put away childish things and become a man."
+
+"Where did you hear that?" he said bluntly.
+
+"I heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not wholly
+uneducated, although your amiable question insinuates as much."
+
+"I'm not unamiable. Only I didn't suppose--"
+
+"Oh, you never have supposed anything concerning me.  So why are you
+surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?"
+
+"I'm sorry--"
+
+"Listen to me.  I'm not afraid of you any more.  I've been afraid
+for two years. Now, I'm not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You
+know it. You didn't know I knew it; you didn't know I knew anything.
+And you didn't care."
+
+She sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.
+
+"You don't care what I think, what I am, what interests I may have,
+what intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animates
+me; do you? You don't care whether I am ignorant or educated, bad or
+good, ill or well--as long as it does not affect my posing for you;
+whether I am happy or unhappy, whether I--"
+
+"For Heaven's sake--"
+
+"But you don't care! . . . Do you?"
+
+He was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.
+
+After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass
+and pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.
+
+"It's five o'clock, you know, Drene."
+
+"Yes, certainly."
+
+"Do you want me to-morrow?"
+
+"Yes. Yes, of course."
+
+"You are not offended?"
+
+He did not answer.  She came up to him and repeated the question in
+a childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And looking
+down into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.
+
+"You little villain!" he said; and caught her wrists. "A lot you
+care whether I am offended!"
+
+She looked away from him, turning her profile.  Her expression was
+inscrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague
+laugh.
+
+"You should have let me alone," he said.
+
+"'The woman tempted me,'" she repeated, still looking away from him.
+He said nothing.
+
+"Good night," she nodded, and turned toward the door.
+
+He went with her, falling into step beside her.  One arm slipped
+around her waist as they entered the hallway. They walked slowly to
+the door. He unlatched it, hesitated; she moved one foot forward,
+and he took a step at the same time which brought her across his
+path so closely that contact was unavoidable. And he kissed her.
+
+"Oh," she said.  "So you are human after all!  I often wondered."
+
+She looked up, trying to laugh, but could not seem to take it as
+coolly as she might have wished to.
+
+"Not that a kiss is very important in these days," she continued,
+"yet it might interest you to hear that a friend of yours rather
+fancies me. He wouldn't like you to do it. But--" She lifted her
+blue eyes with faint malice--"What is a woman between friends?"
+
+"Who is he?"
+
+"Jack Graylock."
+
+Drene remained motionless.
+
+"I haven't encouraged him," she said. "Perhaps that is why."
+
+"Why he fancies you?"
+
+"Why he asked me to marry him.  It was the only thing he had not
+asked."
+
+"He asked that?"
+
+"After he realized it was the only way, I suppose," she said coolly.
+Drene took her into his arms and kissed her deliberately on the
+mouth. Looking up at him she said: "After all, he is your friend,
+isn't he?"
+
+"A friend of many years.  But, as you say, what is a woman between
+friends?"
+
+"I don't know," said the girl. And, still clasped in his arms, she
+bent her head, thoughtfully, considering the question.
+
+And as though she had come to some final conclusion, she raised her
+head, lifted her eyes slowly, and her lips, to the man whose arms
+enfolded her. It was her answer to his question, and her own.
+
+When she had gone, he went back and stood again by the great window,
+watching the cote on a neighboring roof, where the pigeons were
+strutting and coquetting in the last rays of the western sun.
+
+
+
+II
+
+When she came again to the studio, she was different, subdued,
+evading, avoiding, smiling a little in her flushed diffidence at his
+gay ease of manner--or assumption of both ease and gaiety.
+
+He was inclined to rally her, tease her, but her reticence was not
+all embarrassment. The lightest contact, the slightest caress from
+him, added a seriousness to her face, making it very lovely under
+its heightened color, and strangely childlike.
+
+Model and master they would have remained no longer had it been for
+him to say, he desiring now to make it a favor and concession on her
+part to aid him professionally, she gravely insisting on
+professionalism as the basis of whatever entente might develop
+between them, as well as the only avowed excuse for her presence
+there alone with him.
+
+"Please.  It's respectable," she insisted her agreeable, modulated
+voice. "I had rather the reason for my coming here be
+business--whatever else happens."
+
+"What has happened," he said, balancing a handful of wet clay in one
+hand and looking laughingly up at her, where she stood on the
+model-stand, "is that a pretty girl strolled in here one day and
+held up a mirror to a solemn ass who was stalking theatrically
+through life. That solemn ass is very grateful for the glimpse he
+had of himself. He behaved gratefully, didn't he?"
+
+"Very," she said with a forced smile.
+
+"Do you object to the manner in which he expressed his gratitude?"
+
+She hung her head.
+
+"No," she said.
+
+After a while she raised her eyes, her head still lowered.  He was
+working, darkly absorbed as usual in the plastic mass under his
+fingers.
+
+She watched him curiously, not his hands, now, but his lean, intent
+face, striving to penetrate that masculine mask, trying to
+understand. Varying and odd reflections and emotions possessed her
+in turn, and passed--wonder, bewilderment at herself, at him; a
+slight sense of fear, then a brief and sudden access of shyness,
+succeeded by the by glow of an emotion new and strange and deep. And
+this, in turn, by vague bewilderment again, in which there was both
+a hint of fear, and a tinge of something exquisite.
+
+Within herself she was dimly conscious that a certain gaiety, an
+irresponsibility and lightness had died out in her, perhaps
+permanently, yet leaving no void. What it was that replaced these
+she could not name--she only was conscious that if these had been
+subdued by a newer knowledge, with a newer seriousness, this
+unaccustomed gravity had left her heart no less tender, and had
+deepened her capacity for emotion to depths as profound and
+unexplored as the sudden mystery of their discovery by herself.
+
+Always, now, while she posed, she was looking at him with a still
+intentness, as though he really wore a mask and she, breathlessly
+vigilant, watched for the moment when he might forget and lift it.
+
+But during the weeks that followed, if the mask were indeed only the
+steady preoccupation that his visage wore, she seemed to learn
+nothing more about him when his features lost their dark absorption
+and he caught her eye and smiled. No, the smile revealed nothing
+except another mask under the more serious cast of
+concentration--only another disguise that covered whatever this man
+might truly be deeper down--this masculine and unknown invader of
+frontiers surrendered ere she had understood they were even
+besieged.
+
+And during these weeks in early spring their characteristics, even
+characters, seemed to have shifted curiously and become reversed;
+his was now the light, irresponsible, half-mocking badinage--almost
+boyishly boisterous at times, as, for instance, when he stepped
+forward after the pose and swung her laughingly from the
+model-platform to her corner on the sofa.
+
+"You pretty and clever little thing," he said, "why are you becoming
+so serious and absent-minded?"
+
+"Am I becoming so?"
+
+"You are.  You oughtn't to: you've made a new and completely
+different man of me."
+
+As though that were an admirable achievement, or even of any
+particular importance. And yet she seemed to think it was both of
+these when, resting against him, within the circle of his arm, still
+shy and silent under the breathless poignancy of an emotion which
+ever seemed to sound within her depths unsuspected.
+
+But when he said that she had made a new and completely different
+man of him, she remembered his low-voiced when that change impended as
+he held her by her wrists a moment, then dropped them. He had said,
+half to himself: "You should have let me alone!"
+
+Sometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out for
+luncheon realizing they would never have been seated together in a
+restaurant had she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let
+him alone; she knew that. She tried to wish that she had--tried to
+regret everything, anything; and could not, even when within her the
+faint sense of alarm awoke amid the softly unchangeable unreality of
+these last six weeks of spring.
+
+Was this then really love?--this drifting through alternating dreams
+of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes
+of fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths
+of cloud?
+
+She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only
+that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.
+
+She was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dimly
+understood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was
+missing--her conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died?
+Were the little, inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its
+disintegration? Or its immortal vitality?
+
+Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of
+its loss--dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember
+nothing to be sorry for. And there was so much.
+
+Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and
+her, amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters.
+
+That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene
+was a nine days' gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was
+forgotten--as are all wonders--in nine days.
+
+Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the
+tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman's name, and a man's--Drene's
+closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the busy--not
+that the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it
+quickly, having other matters to think about.
+
+Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own
+condescending advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously
+inflammable attentions elsewhere.
+
+He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and
+Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his
+dapper confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first
+bored, grew irritable.
+
+"What are you talking about?" he said sharply.
+
+"I'm talking about Cecile White," continued Quair, looking rather
+oddly at the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. "I didn't
+suppose you could be interested in any woman--not that I mind your
+interfering with any little affair between Cecile and me--"
+
+"There wasn't any."
+
+"I beg your pardon, Drene--"
+
+"There wasn't any!" repeated Drene, with curt contempt.  "Don't talk
+about her, anyway."
+
+"You mean I'm not to talk about a common artist's model--"
+
+"Not that way."
+
+"Oh.  Is she yours?"
+
+"She isn't anybody's, I fancy.  Therefore, let her alone, or I'll
+throw you out of doors."
+
+Quair said to Guilder after they had departed:
+
+"Fancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious
+basis! He's doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what's in it
+for her?"
+
+"Perhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency."
+
+"Everybody is decent enough to her as far as I know."
+
+"Including yourself?"
+
+"Certainly, including myself," retorted Quair, adding naively:
+"Besides, I knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted."
+
+"Yet you tried it," mused Guilder, entering his big touring car and
+depositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his
+own ponderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the
+chauffeur, then:
+
+"Tried nothing," he said.  "A little chaff, that's all.  When it
+comes to a man like Jack Graylock going so far as to ask her to
+marry him, good night, nurse! Nothing doing, even for me."
+
+"Even for you," repeated Guilder in his moderate and always
+modulated voice. "Well, if she's escaped you and Graylock, she's
+beyond any danger from Drene, I fancy."
+
+Quair smiled appreciatively, as though a delicate compliment had
+been offered him. Several times on the way to call on Graylock he
+insisted on stopping the car at as many celebrated cafes. Guilder
+patiently awaited him in the car and each time Quair emerged from
+the cafe bar a little more flushed and a trifle jauntier than when
+he had entered.
+
+He was a man so perfectly attired and so scrupulously fastidious
+about his person that Guilder often speculated as to just why Quair
+always seemed to him a trifle soiled.
+
+Now, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in
+the face, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little,
+pinched nostrils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior
+member of the firm as though the junior member were physically
+unclean.
+
+"That's about ten drinks since luncheon," he remarked, as the car
+rolled on down Fifth Avenue.
+
+Quair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poked his
+gloved thumb:
+
+"You're a merry old cock, aren't you?" he inquired genially, "--like
+a pig's wrist! If I hadn't the drinking of the entire firm to do,
+who'd ever talk about Guilder and Quair, architects?"
+
+It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when
+"soused." And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he
+was.
+
+Graylock received them in his office--a big, reckless-eyed, handsome
+man, with Broad Street written all over him and "danger" etched in
+every deepened line of his face.
+
+"Well, how about that business of mine?" he inquired.  "It's all
+right to keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match
+for highballs at the Ritz."
+
+"I had to see Drene--that's why we are late," explained Guilder.
+"We're ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you--"
+
+"Drene?" interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a
+curious and staring intensity. "Why drag Drene into an excuse?"
+
+"Because we went to his studio," said Guilder.  "Now about letting
+the contracts--"
+
+"Were you at Drene's studio?"
+
+"Yes.  He's doing the groups for the new opera for us."
+
+Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:
+
+"Neat little skirt he has up there--that White girl," he remarked,
+seating himself on Graylock's polished table.
+
+A dull flush stained Graylock's cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned
+on Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two
+thin streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.
+
+"Some skirt," he repeated.  "And it looks as though old Drene had
+her number--"
+
+Guilder's level voice interrupted:
+
+"The contracts are ready to be--"
+
+But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all
+the time at Quair, said slowly:
+
+"Drene isn't that kind. . . .  Is he?"
+
+"Our kind, you mean?" inquired Quair, with a malice so buried under
+flippancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with
+Graylock. Which amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was
+not sufficient. He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.
+
+"Drene," he said, "is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled
+on their necks--the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them
+after she's turned down everything else they suggest."
+
+Graylock's square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed to grow
+even paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of this man's
+record with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumors which
+connected him so seriously with Cecile White, swung his leg
+unconcernedly, where it dangled over the table's edge, and smiled
+frankly and knowingly upon Graylock:
+
+"There's always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn't
+on the breakfast table. When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock,
+Providence has created a species of man who settles our bills."
+
+He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two
+thin streams through his nose.
+
+"Maybe Drene may marry her himself.  But--I don't believe he'll have
+to. . . . Now, about those contracts--" he affected a yawn, "--go on
+and tell him, Guilder," he added, his words distorted by another
+yawn.
+
+He stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretched
+his arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had never
+moved a muscle.
+
+"I believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn't you,
+Graylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well--my hat off to old Drene
+if he wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what's a
+woman between friends?"
+
+And he nodded gaily at Graylock and sauntered leisurely to the
+window.
+
+And kept his back turned, fearful of exploding with laughter in the
+very face of the man who had been staring at him out of pale,
+unchanging eyes so steadily and so long.
+
+Guilder's patient, bored, but moderate voice was raised once more:
+
+"In regard to the letting of these contracts--"
+
+But Graylock, staring at Quair's back, neither heeded nor heard him,
+for his brain was still ringing with the mockery of Quair's
+words--"What is a woman between friends?" And now, for the first
+time, he was beginning to understand what the answer might be.
+
+
+
+III
+
+She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had
+begun to miss her, after his own fashion--that is, he thought of her
+when not preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when
+unoccupied.
+
+And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and
+scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he
+could never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper,
+pocketed it, and went out to his dinner.
+
+But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters
+professional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which
+gradually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to
+see her at that particular time.
+
+Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to
+communicate with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering
+concentration which included himself and his career, as well as his
+work, seemed to obliterate even any memory of her existence.
+
+Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book,
+or duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and
+brain a faint pain became apparent--if it could still be called
+pain, this vague ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead
+years--and at such moments he thought of Graylock, and of another;
+and the partly paralyzed emotion, which memory of these two evoked,
+stirred him finally to think of Cecile.
+
+It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next
+day and continue with her what had been begun--an intimacy which
+depended upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct
+whispered was within his own control. But the next day found him at
+work; models of various types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came,
+posed, were paid, and departed; his studies for the groups in
+collaboration with Guilder and Quair were approaching the intensely
+interesting period--that stage of completion where composition has
+been determined upon and the excitement of developing the
+construction and the technical charm of modeling begins.
+
+And evening always found him physically tired and mentally
+satisfied--or perturbed--to the exclusion of such minor interests as
+life is made of--dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and a
+beloved profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room
+for these or thought of these.
+
+He ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteristic
+of creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples,
+and grayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid
+New York summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gaunt,
+silent, darkly absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air
+until some half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of a
+headache, set him in reluctant motion.
+
+He heard of Cecile now and then; Cosby had used her for a figure on
+a fountain destined to embellish the estate of a wealthy young man
+somewhere or other; Greer employed her for the central figure of
+Innocence in his lovely and springlike decoration for some Western
+public edifice. Quair had met her several times at Manhattan Beach
+with various and assorted wealthy young men.
+
+And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying
+on the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging
+inert to the floor above an evening paper fallen there.
+
+"Hello, Guilder," he said, without rising, as the big architect
+shambled loosely through the open doorway.
+
+"How are you, Drene?"
+
+"All right.  It's hot."
+
+"There's not a breath of air.  It looks like a thunder-storm in the
+west."
+
+He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features
+with a damp handkerchief.
+
+"Drene," he said, "a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a
+chapel to the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We've pinched
+the job. Can you do an altar piece?"
+
+"What sort?"
+
+"They want a Virgin.  It's to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
+It's for women to repair to--under certain and natural circumstances."
+
+"I've so much on hand--"
+
+"It's only a single figure-barring the dove.  Why don't you do it?"
+
+"There are plenty of other men--"
+
+"They want you. There'll be no difficulty about terms."
+
+Drene said with a shrug:
+
+"Terms are coming to mean less and less to me, Guilder.  It costs
+very little for me to live." He turned his gray, tired face. "Look
+at this barn of a place; and go in there and look at my bedroom. I
+have no use for what are known as necessities."
+
+"Still, terms are terms--"
+
+"Oh, yes.  A truck may run over me.  Even at that, I've enough to
+live life out as I am living it here--between these empty walls--and
+that expanse of glass overhead. That's about all life holds for
+me--a sheet of glass and four empty walls--and a fistfull of wet
+clay."
+
+"Are you a trifle morbid, Drene?"
+
+"I'm not by any means; I merely prefer to live this way.  I have
+sufficient means to live otherwise if I wish. But this is enough of
+the world to suit me, Guilder--and I can go to a noisy restaurant to
+eat in when I'm so inclined--" He laughed a rather mirthless laugh
+and glanced up, catching a peculiar expression in Guilder's eyes.
+
+"You're thinking," said Drene coolly, "what a god I once set up on
+the altar of domesticity. I used to talk a lot once, didn't I?--a
+hell of a clamor I made in eulogy of the domestic virtues. Well,
+only idiots retain the same opinions longer than twentyfour hours.
+Fixity is imbecility; the inconstant alone progress; dissatisfaction
+is only a synonym for intelligence; contentment translated means
+stagnation. . . . . I have changed my opinion concerning the virtues
+of domesticity."
+
+Guilder said, in his even, moderate voice:
+
+"Your logic is weird, Drene: in one breath you say you have changed
+your opinion; in another that you are content; in another that
+contentment is the fixedness of imbecility--"
+
+Drene, reddening slightly, half rose on one elbow from his couch:
+
+"What I meant was that I change in my convictions from day to day,
+without reproaching myself with inconstancy. What I believed with
+all my heart to be sacred yesterday I find a barrier to-day; and
+push it aside and go on."
+
+"Toward what?"
+
+"I go on, that's all I know--toward sanctuary."
+
+"You mean professionally."
+
+"In every way--ethically--spiritually.  The gods of yesterday, too,
+were very real--yesterday."
+
+"Drene, a man may change and progress on his way toward what never
+changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in the
+beginning; they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have
+no goal."
+
+"Is there a goal?"
+
+"Where are you going, then?"
+
+"Just on."
+
+"In your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors all
+journey."
+
+"Perfection?"
+
+Guilder nodded.
+
+"But," smiled Drene, "no two sculptors ever see it alike."
+
+"It is still Perfection.  It is still the goal to the color-blind
+and normal alike, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it.
+That is its only importance; it is The Goal. . . . . In things
+spiritual the same obtains--whether one's vision embraces Nirvana,
+or the Algonquin Ocean of Light, or a pallid Christ half hidden in
+floating clouds--Drene, it is all one, all one. It is not the Goal
+that changes; only our intelligence concerning its existence and its
+immortality."
+
+Drene lay looking at him:
+
+"You never knew pain--real pain, did you?  The world never ended for
+you, did it?"
+
+"In one manner or another we all must be reborn before we can
+progress."
+
+"That is a cant phrase."
+
+"No; there's truth under the cant.  Under all the sleek, smooth,
+canty phrases of ecclesiastic proverb, precept, axiom, and lore,
+there is truth worth the sifting out."
+
+"You are welcome to think so, Guilder."
+
+"You also could come to no other conclusion if you took the trouble
+to investigate."
+
+Drene smiled:
+
+"Morals are no more than folk-ways--merely mental condition
+consequent upon custom. Spiritual beliefs are radically dependant
+upon folkways and the resultant physical and mental condition of the
+human brain which creates everything that has been and that is to
+be."
+
+"Physiology has proven that no idea, no thought, ever originated
+within the concrete and physical brain."
+
+"I've read of those experiments."
+
+"Then you can't ignore a conclusion."
+
+"I haven't reached a conclusion.  Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs."
+
+"That's all that's necessary," said Guilder, gravely, "--to
+entertain some belief, temporary or final." He smiled slightly down
+at Drene's drawn, gray visage.
+
+"You and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we have never
+before talked this way. I did not feel at liberty to assume any
+intimacy with you, even when I wanted to, even when--when you were
+in trouble--" He hesitated.
+
+"Go on," grunted the other. "I'm out of trouble now."
+
+"I just--it's a whimsical notion--no, it's a belief;--I just wanted
+to tell you one or two things concerning my own beliefs--"
+
+"Temporary?"
+
+"I don't know.  It doesn't matter; they are beliefs.  And this is
+one: all physical and mental ills are created only by our own
+minds--"
+
+"Christian Science?" sneered Drene.
+
+"Call it what you like," said Guilder serenely.  "And call this what
+you like: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief
+true in every detail after death."
+
+"What do you call that?" demanded Drene, amused.
+
+"God knows.  It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal.  I seem
+to be journeying toward it without more obstacles and more
+embarrassments to encounter than confront the wayfarer who professes
+any other creed."
+
+After a while Drene sat up on his couch:
+
+"How did all this conversation start?" he asked uneasily.
+
+"It was about the Virgin for that chapel we are going to do. . . . .
+That's part of my belief: those who pray for her intercession will
+find her after death, interceding--" he smiled, "--if any
+intercession be necessary between us and Him who made us."
+
+"And those unlisted millions who importune Mohammed and Buddha?"
+
+"They shall find Mohammed and Buddha, who importune them worthily."
+
+"And--Christ?"
+
+"He bears that name also--He!"
+
+"Oh!  And so, spiritually as well as artistically, you believe in
+the Virgin?"
+
+"You also can make a better Virgin if you believe in her otherwise
+than esthetically."
+
+Drene gazed at him incredulously, then, with a shrug:
+
+"When do you want this thing started?"
+
+"Now."
+
+"I can't take it on now."
+
+"I want a sketch pretty soon--the composition.  You can have a model
+of the chapel to--morrow. We went on with it as a speculation. Now
+we've clinched the thing. When shall I send it up from the office?"
+
+"I'll look it over, but--"
+
+"And," interrupted Guilder, "you had better get that Miss White for
+the Virgin--before she goes off somewhere out of reach."
+
+Drene looked up somberly:
+
+"I haven't kept in touch with her. I don't know what her engagements
+may be."
+
+"One of her engagements just now seems to be to go about with
+Graylock," said Guilder.
+
+Drene flushed, but said nothing.
+
+"If he marries her," added Guilder, "as it's generally understood he
+is trying to, the best sculptor's model in town is out of the
+question. Better secure her now."
+
+"He wants to marry her?" repeated Drene, in a curiously still voice.
+
+"He's mad about her.  He's abject.  It's no secret among his
+friends. Men like that--and of that age--sometimes arrive at such a
+terminal--men with Graylock's record sometimes get theirs. She has
+given him a run, believe me, and he's brought up with a crash
+against a stone wall. He is lying there all doubled up at her feet
+like a rabbit with a broken back. There was nothing left for him to
+do but lie there. He's lying there still, with one of her little feet
+on his bull neck. All the town knows it."
+
+"He wants to marry her," repeated Drene, as though to himself.
+
+"She may not take him at that. They're queer--some women.  I suppose
+she'd jump at it if she were not straight. But there's another
+thing--" Guilder looked curiously at Drene. "Some people think she's
+rather crazy about you."
+
+Drene gazed into space.
+
+"But that wouldn't hurt her," added Guilder, in his calm, pleasant
+voice. "She's a straight little thing--white and straight. She could
+come to no harm through a man like you."
+
+Drene continued to stare at space.
+
+"So," continued the other, confident, "when she recovers from a
+natural and childlike infatuation for you she'll marry somebody. . .
+Possibly even such a man as Graylock might make her happy. You
+can't ever tell about such men at the eleventh hour."
+
+Drene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his
+face.
+
+"Aren't you pretty damned charitable?"
+
+"Charitable?  Well, I--I'm so inclined, I fancy."
+
+"You'd be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?"
+
+"I did not say so.  I am no judge of men.  No man knows enough to
+condemn souls."
+
+Drene looked at him:
+
+"Well, I'll tell you something.  I know enough to do it.  I had
+rather damn my soul--and hers, too--than see her marry the man you
+have named. It would be worth it to me."
+
+After a strained silence, Guilder said:
+
+"There is a mode of dealing with those who have injured you, which
+is radically different--"
+
+"I deal with such people in my own fashion!"
+
+"But, after all, the infamy is Graylock's.  Why oblige him by
+sharing it with him?"
+
+"Do you know what he did to me and mine?"
+
+"A few of us know," said Guilder, gently, "--your old friends."
+
+There came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene's eyes:
+
+"I'll take your commission for that altar piece," he said.
+
+"What is it?  An Annunciation?"
+
+
+
+IV
+
+Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by
+the middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine
+until five; every evening they had dined together at the seashore or
+other suburban and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer
+entertainment in town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings
+together in his studio, chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes
+discussing he work in hand or other subjects of he moment, even
+topics covering a wider and more varied range than he had ever
+before discussed with any woman.
+
+He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had
+been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to
+have become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times,
+smoothed out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.
+
+If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety
+had been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something
+duller, his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in
+her surprised and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and
+delightful transfiguration.
+
+At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from
+him, from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of
+absence; and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little,
+as always, when in contact with him.
+
+But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
+reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her
+pretty hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and
+released it.
+
+From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for
+a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the
+night's parting.
+
+Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease
+with him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of
+isolation to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.
+
+Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man,
+such a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such
+kindness, such patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such
+virile sense and sympathy.
+
+And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
+disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
+
+He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship,
+wholly, heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the
+moment; and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in
+the same fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself
+to him by degrees as their comradeship became deliciously
+unembarrassed.
+
+He was making a full length study in clay now.  All day long she sat
+there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle
+and fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and
+sometimes she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which
+she was embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in
+the stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite,
+as though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into
+her halfdreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she
+opened her eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.
+
+But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window
+from the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on
+whimpering wings for a moment and then sheered out into the
+sunlight.
+
+They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
+particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more
+was that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of
+music, he not interrupting.
+
+Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now
+something of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical
+career determined upon, death intervening dragging over her
+isolation the steel meshes of destitution--the necessity for
+self-support, a friend who knew a painter who employed models--not
+anything unusual, not even dramatic.
+
+He nodded as she ended:
+
+"Have you saved anything?"
+
+"A hundred dollars."
+
+"That's fine."
+
+She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
+
+"You are thinking," he said, "that youth is flying."
+
+She smiled wistfully.
+
+"Youth is the time to study.  You were thinking that, too."
+
+She nodded.
+
+"You could have married."
+
+"Why?" she asked, troubled.
+
+"To obtain the means for a musical education."
+
+She gazed at him in amazement, then: "I could go out on the street,
+too, as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful."
+
+"Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy," he
+said. She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against
+the golden table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms
+beyond--Graylock's light eyes riveted upon them both.
+
+"You know," he said, under his breath, "that I shall not marry you.
+But--would you care to begin your studies again?"
+
+There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted
+until the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and
+he saw her lip tremble.
+
+"I had not thought you meant to ask me--that.  I do not quite
+understand what you mean."
+
+"I care enough for you to wish to help you.  May I?"
+
+"I was not sure you cared--enough--"
+
+"Do you--for me?"
+
+"Before I say that I do--care for you--" she began, tremulously
+--"tell me that I have nothing to fear--"
+
+Neither spoke.  Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man
+who stared back at him.
+
+Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
+beauty of her.
+
+"I'm going to tell you something," he said.  "Love is no more
+wonderful than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is
+less fierce, and not as strong."
+
+"What!" she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.
+
+"And I want to tell you another thing.  I am alone in the world.
+What I have, I have devised to you--in case I step out--suddenly--"
+
+He paused, hesitated, then:
+
+"Also I desire you to hear something else," he went on.  "This is
+the proper time for you to hear it, I think--now--to-night--"
+
+He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.
+
+"There was a woman," he said--"She happened to be my wife.  Also
+there was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast.
+Afterward she died--abroad. I believe he was there at the time--Kept
+up a semblance--But he never married her. . . . And I do not intend
+to marry--you."
+
+After a moment: "And that," she whispered, "is why you once said to
+me that I should have let you alone."
+
+"Did I say that to you?"
+
+"Yes." She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: "But if you
+care for me--I do not regret that I did not let you alone."
+
+"I shall not marry you."
+
+Her lip trembled but she smiled.
+
+"That is nothing new to me," she said.  "Only one man has offered
+that."
+
+"Why didn't you take him?" he asked, with an ugly laugh.
+
+"I couldn't.  I cared for you."
+
+"And now," he said, "are you afraid of me?"
+
+"Yes--a little."
+
+He leaned forward suddenly, "You'd better steer clear of me!"  Her
+startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.
+
+"Fair warning!" he added: "look out for yourself."  Everything that
+was brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his
+features so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a
+hard, bruised look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and
+twitched at them.
+
+"You're taking chances from now on," he said. "I told you once to
+let me alone. You'd better do it now. And--" he stared at the
+distant man--"I told you that hate is more vital than love. It is.
+I've waited a long time to strike. Even now it isn't in me to do it
+as I have meant to do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me;
+and I'll strike in the old-fashioned way, and end it--to-night."
+
+Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing
+with his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what
+she was doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving
+lightly and in silence out into the brilliant darkness of the
+streets.
+
+It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on
+the shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom
+yellowing his ghastly face.
+
+"Something snapped"--he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;--
+"I care very deeply for you. I--they'll make over to you--what I
+have. You can study on it--live on it, modestly--"
+
+"W-what is the matter? Are you ill?" she stammered, white and
+frightened.
+
+But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should
+keep away from him, and that it would not be long before she should
+have an opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.
+
+When he reached his studio the hall was dark.  As he turned the key
+he thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went
+in--leaving the door into the hallway open--and straight on across
+the room to his desk.
+
+He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was
+still turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across
+the threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely,
+and then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.
+
+And so they stood alone together after many years.
+
+
+
+V
+
+Graylock looked at Drene's heavily sagging pocket and knew what was
+in it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily
+enough:
+
+"I'd like to say a word or two--if you'll give me time."  And, as
+Drene made no reply;--"You're quite right: This business of ours
+should be finished one way or another. I can't stand it any longer."
+
+"In that case," remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, "I may
+postpone it--to find out how much you can stand." He dropped his
+right hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all
+the while:
+
+"What do you want here anyway?"
+
+"I fancy that you have already guessed."
+
+"Maybe.  All the same, what do you want?"--fumbling with his bulging
+pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.
+
+Graylock's worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon:
+he stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the
+sofa, his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.
+
+But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
+overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass
+above;--otherwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed
+in wet clothes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.
+
+"It's a long time, Drene."
+
+Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
+
+Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
+armchair toward him and seated himself.
+
+"It's many years," repeated Graylock.  "I expected you to do
+something before this."
+
+"Were you uneasy?" sneered Drene.  Then he shrugged, knowing that
+Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man
+who deals a premature and useless blow.
+
+He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered
+sideways as though listening; his oblique glance always covering
+Graylock.
+
+"I suppose you'll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I
+came here," said Graylock.
+
+"Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or
+do?"
+
+The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on
+his knees.
+
+"Drene," he said, in a low voice, "don't strike at me through this
+young girl."
+
+Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly.
+
+"Are you in love with her?"
+
+"Yes. . . .  You know it."
+
+Drene said, still laughing: "It's the common rumor.  You may imagine
+it amuses your friends--if you have any left."
+
+Graylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great
+room:
+
+"Don't harm her, Drene.  It is not necessary.  I shall never see
+her again--if that will content you."
+
+Drene laughed: "I never saw my wife again.  Did that help me?  I
+never saw her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was
+. . . My wife. And when she died, still my wife. There was no
+relief--no relief."
+
+Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands
+and stared at nothing:
+
+"I know," he said.  "I understand now.  I am here to-night to pay
+the reckoning."
+
+"You can't pay it."
+
+"No, not the whole score.  There's another bill, I suppose, waiting
+for me--somewhere. But I can settle my indebtedness to you--"
+
+"How?"
+
+"That's up to you, Drene."
+
+"How?" repeated Drene, violently.
+
+Graylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene's sagging
+pocket: "That way if you like. Or," he added, "There is a harder
+punishment."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"To give her up."
+
+"Yes," said Drene, "that is harder.  But I can make it even harder
+than that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I
+can let you live through it."
+
+He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and
+leisurely pushed the lever to "safe."
+
+He said: "To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a
+lifer. You know what you are while you're alive; maybe you'd forget
+if you were dead. I--"
+
+He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his
+knee; and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each
+other. And when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the
+automatic.
+
+"If I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently."
+He shot an ugly look at Graylock: "I don't know about you, either.
+You're a rat. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant.
+And in that case you'd get away--if it's true that the eleventh hour
+is not too late. . . . If it's true that Christ is merciful. . . .
+So I'll take no chances of a getaway. You might fool me--one way or
+another--if you were dead."
+
+Graylock lifted his head from his hands: "I don't know how much of
+the other debt I've already paid, Drene. But I've paid heavily since
+I knew her--if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she
+cared for you, and when I realized that you meant to strike me
+through her--I have paid, heavily. . . . Yet, if you were honestly
+in love with her--"
+
+"Is that any of your damned business?"
+
+"She's only a child--"
+
+"You rat!  That's what's coming to you!"
+
+"If you say so.  But what is coming to her, Drene?"
+
+"Continue to guess.  But I know you.  It's yourself you're sorry for
+and what you'll have to endure--live through. That's what you can't
+stand, and remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will
+make earth a living hell for you; never a second, day or night, will
+you be able to forget--if you really do love her. . . . And I
+believe you do--I don't understand how a thing like you can
+love--but it seems it can."
+
+After a silence Graylock said: "You don't care if you damn
+yourself?"
+
+"It's worth it to me."
+
+"Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as
+I am?" Drene's gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in
+silence.
+
+"Don't you care what you do to her?" asked Graylock, unsteadily.
+"It's a viler business than that for which you are punishing me."
+
+For a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on his
+knees. And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: "It's bad
+enough either way for me, Drene. I'll do what you wish in the
+matter. I'll leave the country; I'll stay; whichever you say. Or,"
+he said with a ghastly smile, "I'll clean out that automatic for you
+to-night--if you'll marry her."
+
+Drene looked up, slowly:
+
+"What did you say?"
+
+"I said that I'd clean out your automatic for you--to-night--if you
+wish. . . . It can be an accident or not, just as you say."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In my own rooms--if it is to be an accident."
+
+"Do you offer--"
+
+"Yes; if you'll marry her afterwards.  If you say you will I'll take
+your word."
+
+"And then you'll be out of your misery, you damned coward!"
+
+"God knows. . . .  But I think not," said Graylock, under his
+breath.
+
+Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it,
+considering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer
+noticing the other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the
+wall where a calendar hung.
+
+He stood for a while looking at it absently.  After a few moments he
+stepped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then one
+by one tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the month
+marked December, Graylock watching him all the while.
+
+"I think it happened on Christmas," remarked Drene turning toward
+the other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.
+
+Graylock's head bent slightly.
+
+"Very well.  Suppose about eleven o'clock on Christmas night you
+give your automatic a thorough cleaning.
+
+"If you say so."
+
+"You have one?"
+
+"I shall buy one."
+
+"Didn't you come here armed?"
+
+"No."
+
+Drene looked at him very intently.  But Graylock had never been a
+liar. After a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the
+weapon under the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:
+
+"All right. You can go."
+
+
+
+VI
+
+He wrote to Cecile once:
+
+Hereafter keep clear of men like Graylock and like me.
+We're both of a stripe--the same sort under our skins.
+I've known him all my life. It all depends upon the
+opportunity, the circumstances, and the woman. And, what
+is a woman between friends--between such friends as
+Graylock and I once were--or between the sort of friends
+we have now become? Keep clear of such men as we are.
+We were boys together.
+
+
+For a week or two he kept his door locked and lived on what the
+janitor provided for him, never going out of the studio at all.
+
+He did no work, although there were several unexecuted commissions
+awaiting his attention and a number of sketches, clay studies, and
+one marble standing around the studio in various stages of progress.
+The marble was the Annunciation. The head and throat and slender
+hands were completed, and one slim naked foot.
+
+Sometimes he wandered from one study to the next, vague-eyed,
+standing for a long time before each, staring, lost in thought.
+Sometimes, in the evening he read, choosing a book at random among
+the motley collection in a corner case--a dusty, soiled assortment
+of books, ephemeral novels of the moment, ponderous volumes which
+are in everybody's library but which nobody reads, sets of
+histories, memoirs, essays, beautifully bound and once cared for,
+but now dirty from neglect--jetsam from a wrecked home.
+
+There had been a time when law, order and neatness formed the basis
+of Drene's going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise,
+fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of
+beautiful things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol that
+suggested home and hearth and family.
+
+But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye,
+something else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaos,
+indifferent to all that had formerly been a part of him, a silent
+emotionless, burnt out thing, callous to all that he had once cared
+for.
+
+Yet something of what he had been must have remained latent within
+him for with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his clay
+and chiseled his marble; and there must have been in him something
+to express, for the beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had
+set him high among the highest in his profession.
+
+Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so
+that it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow
+sears, rendering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow
+remains under the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that
+is noble, hardening all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving
+a devil behind it--fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.
+
+Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was
+becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious
+of it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding
+that although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding,
+and very, very quiet.
+
+And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even
+himself--that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an
+instant by a young girl's gaiety--and with a smile, half-responsive,
+on his own unaccustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same
+instant, that the man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly
+in love with her.
+
+And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and
+that there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and
+what perhaps was love.
+
+Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself
+still hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it
+possible? If he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he
+still strike and reach him through the woman for whose sake he,
+Graylock, was going to step out of things?
+
+That occupied his mind continually, now.  Was there anybody who
+could tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether
+the soul survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell,
+could a living man add anything to its torments for his enemy's
+benefit?
+
+One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was
+feeling quite well.
+
+"Yes" said Drene, "I am well."
+
+The janitor spoke of his not eating.  And, as Drene said nothing, he
+mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own
+quarters in many weeks.
+
+Drene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."
+
+But he did not.  He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,
+wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his
+days.
+
+What were the nights of a condemned man like?  Did Graylock sleep?
+Did he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever
+suspected him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled
+his final part of the bargain.
+
+For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock
+was thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is
+in good physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the
+very second how many seconds of life remain for him?
+
+Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night.
+
+In November the snow fell.  Drene had not been out except in
+imagination.
+
+Day after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night after
+night, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues at
+midday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see what
+expression this man wore, what was imprinted on his
+features;--obsessed by a desire to learn what he might be
+thinking--with death drawing nearer.
+
+But Drene, in the body, had never stirred from his own chilly
+room--a gaunt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, half-clothed, huddled all
+day in his chair brooding above his bitten nails, or flung starkly
+across his couch at night staring at the stars through the dirty
+crust of glass above.
+
+One night in December when the stars were all staring steadily back
+at him, and his thoughts were out somewhere in the darkness
+following his enemy, he heard somebody laughing in the room.
+
+For a while he lay very still, listening; but when he realized that
+the laughter was his own he sat up, pressing his temples between hot
+and trembling fingers.
+
+It seemed to silence the laughter: terror subsided to a tremulous
+apprehension--as though he had been on the verge of something
+horrible sinking into it for a moment--but had escaped.
+
+Again he found himself thinking of Graylock, and presently he
+laughed; then frightened, checked himself. But his fevered brain had
+been afire too long; he lay fighting with his thoughts to hold them
+in leash lest they slip out into the night like blood hounds on the
+trail of the man they had dogged so long.
+
+Trembling, terrified, he set his teeth in his bleeding lip, and
+clenched his gaunt fists: He could not hold his thoughts in leash;
+could not control the terrifying laughter; hatred blazed like
+hell-fire scorching the soul in him, searing his aching brain with
+flames which destroy.
+
+In the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the
+stars through the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the
+infernal flicker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a
+voice calling for help--his own voice--
+
+Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared,
+striving to pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.
+
+Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio
+had dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another,
+holding his breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell
+on the snowy foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds
+upward slowly to the slim and child-like hands--
+
+"Oh, God!" he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.
+
+For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the
+heart were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he
+reeled forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning
+eyes, he saw the child-like head bend toward him from the slender
+neck--saw that the eyes were faintly blue--
+
+"Mother of God!" he screamed, "my mind is dying--my mind is dying!
+. . . We were boys, he and I. . . . Let God judge him. . . . Let him
+be judged . . . mercifully. . . . I am worse than he. . . . There is
+no hell. I have striven to fashion one--I have desired to send him
+thither--Mother of God--Cecile--"
+
+Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down
+close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold
+foot.
+
+"I am sick," he rambled on--"and very tired. . . .  We were boys
+together, Cecile. . . . When I am in my right mind I would not harm
+him. . . . He was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared
+not do. . . . So young, and straight, and daring. . . . I would not
+harm him. Or you, Cecile. . . . Only I am sick, burning out, with
+only a crippled mind left--from being badly hurt--It never got well.
+. . . And now it is dying of its hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before
+it dies I do forgive him--and ask forgiveness--for Christ's sake--"
+
+Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.
+
+
+
+VII
+
+It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
+senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his
+bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.
+
+"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.
+
+The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
+bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to
+her throat.
+
+"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.
+
+Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand
+and laid her cheek on it, crying silently.
+
+As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to
+wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at
+her.
+
+The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was
+moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she
+bent over him.
+
+"I want--Graylock," he whispered.  The girl flushed, bent nearer,
+gazing at him intently.
+
+"Graylock," he repeated.
+
+"Not now," she murmured, "not today.  Rest for a, while."
+
+"Please," he said, looking up at her trustfully--"Graylock.  Now."
+
+"When you are well--"
+
+"I am--well.  Please, dear."
+
+For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his
+limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took
+his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful
+expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.
+
+So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock.
+It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor's quarters where
+there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas
+day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was
+permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of
+gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood.
+
+So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then
+she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry
+darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking
+eleven.
+
+As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone.  She hesitated.
+But the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided
+her.
+
+After a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment.  A servant
+asked her to hold the wire.
+
+After an interval she recognized Graylock's voice at the telephone,
+pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the
+season.
+
+"What are you doing this Christmas night?" she asked.  "Surely you
+are not all alone there at home?"
+
+"I am rather too old for anything else," he said.
+
+"But what are you doing?  Reading?"
+
+"As a matter of fact," he said, "I happened to be cleaning an
+automatic revolver when you called up."
+
+"What a gay employment for Christmas night!  Is that your idea of
+celebrating?"
+
+"There happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight."
+
+"But there is.  You are requested to make a call."
+
+"On whom?" he asked, quietly.
+
+"On Mr. Drene."
+
+For a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him
+twice, thinking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his
+voice came, curiously altered:
+
+"Who asked that of me?"
+
+"Mr. Drene."
+
+"Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear."
+
+"He is convalescent."
+
+"Did he ask you to call me?"
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"Then--you are with him?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In his apartment.  I came downstairs to the janitor's rooms.  I am
+telephoning from there what he wished me to ask you."
+
+After a pause Graylock said: "Is his mind perfectly clear?"
+
+"Perfectly, now."
+
+"He asked for me?"
+
+"Yes.  Will you come?"
+
+"He asked for me?  Tonight?  At eleven o'clock?"
+
+She said: "I don't think he knows even what month it is.  He has
+only been conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christmas
+night perhaps he might not have disturbed you. But--will you come?"
+
+"I am afraid it is too late--to-night."
+
+"Tomorrow, then?  Shall I tell him?"
+
+There was a silence. She repeated the question.  But Graylock's
+reply was inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of good
+night.
+
+Somewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family and
+probably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked in
+there; there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.
+
+The girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips.
+Blessed happiness had come to her in time for Christmas--a strange
+and heavenly happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared to
+one who loves, for it had been more than the mere life of this man
+she had asked of God: it had been his mind.
+
+He lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lamp, looking
+down at him.
+
+After a while she seated herself and took up her sewing.  But laid
+it aside again as there came a low knocking at the door.
+
+Drene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood still
+beside the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile moved about
+singing under her breath. They both heard her.
+
+Drene nodded weakly.  After a moment he made the effort to speak:
+
+"I am trying to get well--to start again--better--live more--nobly.
+. . . Take your chance, too."
+
+"If you wish, Drene."
+
+"Yes.  I was not--very--well.  I had been ill--very--a long while
+. . . And you are not to clean the automatic. . . . Only your
+own-soul. . . . Ask help. . . . You'll get it. . . . . I did. . . .
+And--all that is true--what we believed--as boys. . . . I know.
+I've seen. And it's all true--all true--what we believed--as little
+boys."
+
+He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a
+smile in them.
+
+"Good-bye--Jack," he whispered.
+
+Graylock's mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps
+Drene heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once
+more at his boyhood friend.
+
+"Somewhere--somebody will straighten out--all this," he murmured,
+closing his eyes again: "We can't; we can only try--to straighten
+out--ourselves."
+
+Graylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily
+erect, he turned away.
+
+Cecile met him from the studio.
+
+"Good night," she said, offering her hand. . . .  "And a happy
+Christmas. . . . I hope you will not be lonely."
+
+He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.
+
+For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene's
+bedroom with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.
+
+After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and,
+smiling, she came forward to the bedside.
+
+"It was a terrible dream," he whispered--"all those years.  But it
+was a dream."
+
+"You must dream no more."
+
+"No.  Come nearer."
+
+She rested on the bed's edge beside him and laid one hand on his.
+The other held the holly, but he did not notice it until she offered
+it.
+
+"Dear," she whispered, "it is Christmas night.  And you did not even
+know it."
+
+Suddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyes,
+and he closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that had
+been vouchsafed to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain his
+soul.
+
+After a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in
+the spell of the dream that invaded her--the exquisite vision of
+wifehood--she sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.
+
+Once more he turned his head and looked at her.  Then her slender
+neck bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue--
+
+"Cecile!"--he faltered--"Madonna inviolate! . . .  The
+woman--between--friends--"
+
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Between Friends, by Robert W. Chambers
+
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