rebuke. Mr. Klemm, not easily silenced, had no more to
say. He seemed relieved when dinner was announced.

Judith, herself, felt vaguely shamed. The past year, begun with such
hopes, such fine purpose--what had it all amounted to--but talk? What
had she _done_? What was she but Good's cheque-book? What would she do
were he removed? What was she--herself--alone--?

She was silent at dinner, dimly conscious that the man beside her was
talking very earnestly about a certain philosophy of painting. She knew
only that what he said was of no interest to her. Somehow, in her
awakening conception of the bigness and yet the simplicity of life, and
of the part she wanted to play in it, the aesthetic arts seemed
irrelevant. She had always been ignorant of painting and music, caring
for them only as pretty pictures or melodious diversion. Now, she no
longer cared even to pretend that she was not indifferent. Hitherto she
had lumped such culture with dress and servants and fine houses--only
one among the many "little things." Art had been in no way vital to her:
she knew no one, not even the "collectors," to whom it was. Art, to
them, as well as to her, was merely one, and a comparatively unimportant
one, of the conventions which went to make up the life of the "upper
classes." Though she herself owned some of the finest paintings in
America, she frankly admitted that they really meant no more to her than
the silver plate from which she dined. She smiled as portions of the
argot the painter beside her was using, filtered into her consciousness.
The poor creature doubtless thought he was flattering her. She wanted to
tell him candidly how little his silly chatter interested her. Why did
he not tell her something of real value, something which would help her
find herself, something which would make her matter in the real world of
real things, so that when she was gone there would be a vacancy to fill?
Art! She turned away in disgust she could not conceal.

Mrs. Weidely's was a large house, with countless little nooks and
crannies where one desirous of solitude might steal away and find it.
Mrs. Dodson, Judith suspected, was as bored as she. It was a simple
matter to suggest an escape with her into one of these refuges. The
older woman was frankly grateful for the idea. When they were seated,
with the chatter of the company drifting faintly to them like the
far-off rattle of musketry, Judith voiced her problem. Mrs. Dodson heard
her