ad claimed him. He had, indeed, come into his own.

When the rest of his friends spoke of him, praised or blamed, she was
silent. Geoffrey Fox, who came often, complained, "You are always sitting
off in a corner somewhere with your work, putting in a million stitches,
when I want you to talk."

"You can talk to Marie-Louise. She is your ardent disciple. She burns
candles at your altar."

"She is a charming--child."

"She is more than that. When her poem was accepted she cried over the
letter. She thinks that she couldn't have done it except for your help
and criticism."

"She will do more than she has done."

When Marie-Louise joined them, Anne was glad to see Geoffrey's protective
manner, as if he wanted to be nice to the child who had cried.

She had to listen to much criticism of Richard. When Eve and the
Dutton-Ames dined one night in the early fall at Rose Acres, Richard's
quixotic action formed the theme of their discourse.

Eve was very frank. "Somebody ought to tie Dicky down. His head is in the
clouds."

Marie-Louise flashed: "I like people whose heads are in the clouds. He is
doing a wonderful thing and a wise thing--and we are all acting as if it
were silly."

Anne wanted to hug Marie-Louise, and with heightened color she listened
to Winifred's defense.

"I think we should all like to feel that we are equal to it--to give up
money and fame--for the thing that--called."

"There is no better or bigger work for him there than here," Austin
proclaimed.

"No," Winifred agreed, and her eyes were bright, "but it is because he is
giving up something which the rest of us value that I like him.
Renunciation isn't fashionable, but it is stimulating."

"The usual process is to 'grab and git,'" her husband sustained her. "We
always like to see some one who isn't bitten by the modern bacillus."

After dinner Anne left them and made her way down in the darkness to the
river. The evening boat was coming up, starred with lights, its big
search-light sweeping the shores. When it passed, the darkness seemed
deeper. The night was cool, and Anne, wrapped in a white cloak, was like
a ghost among the shadows. Far up on the terrace she could see the big
house, and hear the laughter. She felt much alone. Those people were not
her people. Her people were of Nancy's kind, well-born and well bred, but
not smart in the modern sense. They were quiet folk, liking their homes,
their friends, their neighbors. They were not