during the summer-time, and the fall brought his almost
farmer-like wife on to see them and to enjoy trips, sight-seeing,
studio teas. It was amusing, typically American, naive, almost
impossible from many points of view.

Rita Sohlberg was of the semi-phlegmatic type, soft, full-blooded, with
a body that was going to be fat at forty, but which at present was
deliciously alluring. Having soft, silky, light-brown hair, the color
of light dust, and moist gray-blue eyes, with a fair skin and even,
white teeth, she was flatteringly self-conscious of her charms. She
pretended in a gay, childlike way to be unconscious of the thrill she
sent through many susceptible males, and yet she knew well enough all
the while what she was doing and how she was doing it; it pleased her
so to do. She was conscious of the wonder of her smooth, soft arms and
neck, the fullness and seductiveness of her body, the grace and
perfection of her clothing, or, at least, the individuality and taste
which she made them indicate. She could take an old straw-hat form, a
ribbon, a feather, or a rose, and with an innate artistry of feeling
turn it into a bit of millinery which somehow was just the effective
thing for her. She chose naive combinations of white and blues, pinks
and white, browns and pale yellows, which somehow suggested her own
soul, and topped them with great sashes of silky brown (or even red)
ribbon tied about her waist, and large, soft-brimmed, face-haloing
hats. She was a graceful dancer, could sing a little, could play
feelingly--sometimes brilliantly--and could draw. Her art was a
makeshift, however; she was no artist. The most significant thing
about her was her moods and her thoughts, which were uncertain, casual,
anarchic. Rita Sohlberg, from the conventional point of view, was a
dangerous person, and yet from her own point of view at this time she
was not so at all--just dreamy and sweet.

A part of the peculiarity of her state was that Sohlberg had begun to
disappoint Rita--sorely. Truth to tell, he was suffering from that
most terrible of all maladies, uncertainty of soul and inability to
truly find himself. At times he was not sure whether he was cut out to
be a great violinist or a great composer, or merely a great teacher,
which last he was never willing really to admit. "I am an arteest," he
was fond of saying. "Ho, how I suffer from my temperament!" And again:
"These dogs! These cows! These pigs!" This of othe