nsion of Art.... For days, for weeks, she had remained in her
studio seeing no one. Some big work was rumored, and she was left alone
with understanding among real people, just as was Vina Nettleton....
But she was too maimed within to work. She wanted to rush off to Asia
somewhere, and bury herself alive, but pride kept her at home. As soon
as she was able to move and think coherently, she sought her few
friends again. Even her dearest, Vina Nettleton, had realized but a
tithe of the tragedy.

* * * * *

Beth Truba reached her studio again Monday noon. Among the letters in
her post-box, was one she felt instinctively to be from Andrew Bedient,
though it was post-marked Albany. She hesitated to open the letter at
first, for fear that he had attempted to explain his presence in Mrs.
Wordling's room. This would affix him eternally to commonness in her
mind. He had a right to go to Mrs. Wordling's room, but she had thought
him other than the sort which pursues such obvious attractions.
Especially after what Cairns had said, she was hurt to meet him
there.... Beth found herself thinking at a furious rate, on the mere
hazard that the letter was from Bedient....

Were there really such men in the world as the Bedient whom Cairns
pictured, and believed in? Personally, she didn't care to experiment,
but there was a strange reliance in the thought that there _were_ such
men.... The fine nature she wanted to believe in--wouldn't have
written!... This one letter alone remained unopened--when the telephone
rang.

It was Cairns, who inquired if she had heard aught of his friend.... "I
reached town Saturday morning," Cairns went on, "and found a note that
he would be away for the day and possibly Sunday; didn't say where nor
why. He left no word at the Club. In fact, Mrs. Wordling called me just
now to inquire, volunteering that Bedient had been in her world Friday.
Excuse me for bothering you. I've an idea this is his way when a gale
is blowing in his brain. He pushes out for solitude and sea-room."

Beth had not offered to assist. The Albany letter might not be his. It
stared at her now from the library-table, full-formed black writing.
There were no two ways about a single letter. It was the writing of a
man who had not covered continents of white paper. "Miss Beth Truba"
had been put there to stay, with a full pen, and as if pleasing to his
sight. She was thinking--it would be well if Mrs. Word