uise; but the initiated understood how he had fathomed the
tragedy underlying the lives of most women who are set apart from their
fellows by the gift of genius. When the Spirit is upon them they
prophesy, by means of pictures or poems or stories or songs; and the
world says, "These are not as other women; they command our admiration,
but they do not crave our love: let us put them on the top of pinnacles
for high days and holidays, and not trouble them with the petty details
of everyday life."

The world forgets that the gift of genius is a thing apart from the
woman herself, and that these women at heart are very women, as entirely
as their less gifted sisters are, and have the ordinary woman's longing
for love and laughter, and for all the little things that make life
happy. A pinnacle is a poor substitute for a hearthstone, from the
feminine point of view; and laurel wreaths do not make half so
satisfactory a journey's end as lovers' meetings. All of which it is
difficult for a man to understand, since fame is more to him than it is
to a woman, and love less; therefore the knowledge of this truth proved
Cecil Farquhar to be a true artist; while the able manner in which he
had set it forth showed him to be also a highly gifted one. And the
world is always ready to acknowledge real merit when it sees it, and to
do homage to the same.

The Daughters of Philip carried a special message to the heart of
Elisabeth Farringdon. She had been placed on her pinnacle, and had
already begun to find how cold was the atmosphere up there, and how much
more human she was than people expected and allowed for her to be. She
felt like a statue set up in the market-place, that hears the children
piping and mourning, and longs to dance and weep with them; but they did
not ask her to do either--did not want her to do either--and if she had
come down from her pedestal and begged to be allowed to play with them
or comfort them, they would only have been frightened and run away.

But here at last was a man who understood what she was feeling; to whom
she could tell her troubles, and who would know what she meant; and she
made up her mind that before that season was over, she and the unknown
artist, who had painted The Daughters of Philip, should be friends.

CHAPTER XIII

CECIL FARQUHAR

And my people ask politely
How a friend I know so slightly
Can be more to me than others I have liked a year or so;