cess he had become a different man. His new and popular
period set in when he wrote stories about rich and childish boys and
girls and their silly love affairs. Hazel Fredericks and her set
affected to despise them, but they were immensely popular.

If he had sold himself, as his critics said, he had made a sharp bargain
with the devil. He had become prosperous, well-known, envied, invited.
Milly had always admired his intelligence in grasping his chance when it
came.

She remembered now another story about the popular novelist. He had
never married, and the flippant explanation of the fact was that he was
under contract with his publishers not to marry until he was fifty in
order not to impair his popularity among his bonbon-eating clientele,
who wrote him intimate, scented letters. But she knew the truth. She had
the story from the sister of the girl, whom she had met in Paris. The
girl was poor and trying to paint; they met in the garret-days when
Reinhard "was writing to please himself," as they say. The two were
obviously deeply in love, and only their common poverty, it was
supposed, prevented the marriage. It was still desperate love when the
fortunate accident befell Reinhard that led him out of obscurity to
fame. It was then that the affair had been broken off. The sister found
the poor girl in tears with a horrible resolve to throw herself away.
(Later she married a rich man, and was very happy with him, the sister
averred.) Milly had always felt that Reinhard must have been "hard" with
this poor girl,--he would not let his feeling for her stand in the way
of his career. Now she understood better why he would have none of her
sex except as buyers of his wares. She admired him and disliked him for
it all at once. That was what Jack should have done with her. But he was
too tender-hearted, too much the mere man.... Oh, well, these artists
with their needs and their temperaments!

Slowly Milly went over all the sketches, one by one. It was like a
fragmentary diary of the life she had lived beside and not looked at
closely while it was in being. She was surprised there were so many
recent ones--all unfinished. She could not recall when he had done them
or where. It proved that Bragdon had never really given up the idea of
painting. The desire had stung him all the time, and every now and then
he must have yielded to it, stealing away from the piffling duties of
the magazine office--spat on popular art, so to spe