id it, the master be moved from blame to praise, and himself be
free to enter this street bravely, noisily, careless of recognition, to
tell how the big way had been opened. He had pictured the pleasure that
would light Teevan's face as he heard this tale of conquest.

CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. LAITHE IS IN

On the ultimate night of defeat Ewing walked as usual into Ninth Street
for his vigil before Teevan's house. He had come to a wall that must be
scaled. He could no longer believe in any chance way round it or
gracious opening through it. Teevan would have to be told, and he was
sorry for Teevan. The little man had believed so.

He scanned the starred strip of sky above him as if for words to renew
the faith of his friend. His eye ran along the house fronts opposite,
but they were blunt, uninspiring masses with shut doors and curtained
windows, houses turned away from him. He wished for another friend, less
exacting than Teevan, who would take defeat lightly. Then one of the
houses stood out familiarly, the Bartell house, with its generous width
and its hospitable white door. He had not cared to go there in his time
of suspense, but now he was overwhelmed with a sudden longing to see
Mrs. Laithe, to feel her friendliness and confide to her, perhaps, a
hint of his plight. At least he could look at her a little while, even
if he told her nothing.

He crossed the street quickly, walked toward the avenue until he reached
the marble steps, and rang the bell. It occurred to him dismally while
he waited that she might not be in; still worse, that there might be
people about who would keep him from her. It had been so most of the
few times he had called. There was always friendliness in the look she
gave him across those shoreless seas of talk, but too often there had
been little beside this look.

The man admitted him and was not sure if Mrs. Laithe was in; he would
see. Ewing strolled back to the soothing snugness of the library and
dropped on the couch. Even to be there alone was something: the room was
alive with her, and the restful quietness of it made him conscious all
at once of the long strain he had been under. Leaning his head back, he
shut his eyes in a sort of desperate surrender, letting the tragedy of
his failure swirl about him. But something from the woman he awaited
seemed to have flowed in upon him, healing his hurt with gracious little
reminders of her. He breathed a long sigh of relief, and for a