they ever got the chance. Well, I guess it's a good thing; they enjoy
thinking about it and it don't do anybody any harm."

Alice was piqued. For several days she had thought almost continuously
of a career to be won by her own genius. Not that she planned details,
or concerned herself with first steps; her picturings overleaped all
that. Principally, she saw her name great on all the bill-boards of that
unkind city, and herself, unchanged in age but glamorous with fame and
Paris clothes, returning in a private car. No doubt the pleasantest
development of her vision was a dialogue with Mildred; and this became
so real that, as she projected it, Alice assumed the proper expressions
for both parties to it, formed words with her lips, and even spoke some
of them aloud. "No, I haven't forgotten you, Mrs. Russell. I remember
you quite pleasantly, in fact. You were a Miss Palmer, I recall, in
those funny old days. Very kind of you, I'm shaw. I appreciate your
eagerness to do something for me in your own little home. As you say, a
reception WOULD renew my acquaintanceship with many old friends--but I'm
shaw you won't mind my mentioning that I don't find much inspiration in
these provincials. I really must ask you not to press me. An artist's
time is not her own, though of course I could hardly expect you to
understand----"

Thus Alice illuminated the dull time; but she retired from the interview
with her father still manfully displaying an outward cheerfulness, while
depression grew heavier within, as if she had eaten soggy cake. Her
father knew nothing whatever of the stage, and she was aware of his
ignorance, yet for some reason his innocently skeptical amusement
reduced her bright project almost to nothing. Something like this always
happened, it seemed; she was continually making these illuminations, all
gay with gildings and colourings; and then as soon as anybody else so
much as glanced at them--even her father, who loved her--the pretty
designs were stricken with a desolating pallor. "Is this LIFE?" Alice
wondered, not doubting that the question was original and all her own.
"Is it life to spend your time imagining things that aren't so, and
never will be? Beautiful things happen to other people; why should I be
the only one they never CAN happen to?"

The mood lasted overnight; and was still upon her the next afternoon
when an errand for her father took her down-town. Adams had decided
to begin smoking again, and Ali