exes, natures? Why
wasn't it an artistic creation, the unbroken happiness and harmony she
drew out of those elements, as much as the picture the painter drew out
of the reds and blues and yellows on his palette? If it gave an actor a
high and disinterested pleasure when he had an inspiration, or heard
himself give out a true and freshly found intonation, or make exactly
the right gesture, whether anybody in the audience applauded him or not,
why wouldn't the mother of a family and maker of a home have the same
pleasure, and by heck! just as high and disinterested, when she had once
more turned the trick, had an inspiration, and found a course that all
her charges, young and old, could steer together? Well, there was one,
anyhow, of Marise's audience who often gave her a silent hand-clap of
admiration.

The wailing, lugubrious notes of the negro lament rose now, Paul's voice
loud and clear and full of relish. "It takes a heavy stimulant to give
Paul his sensations," thought his father. "What would take the hide
right off of Elly, just gives him an agreeable tingle." His pipe went
out as he listened, and he reached for a match. The song stopped.
Someone had come in. He heard Paul's voice cry joyfully, "Oh goody, Mr.
Welles, come on up to the piano."

Neale leaned forward with a slightly unpleasant stirring of his blood
and listened to see if the old man had come alone. No, of course he
hadn't. He never did.

There was Eugenia's voice saying, "Good-evening, Mr. Marsh." She would
move over for him on the sofa and annex him with a look. Well, let her
have him. He was her kind more than theirs, the Lord knew. Probably he
was used to having that sort of woman annex him.

Neale moved his head restlessly and shifted his position. His pipe and
his arm-chair had lost their savor. The room seemed hot to him and he
got up to open a window. Standing there by the open sash, looking out
into the blue, misty glory of an overclouded moonlight night, he decided
that he would not go in at all, and join them. He felt tired and out of
sorts, he found. And they were such infernal talkers, Eugenia and Marsh.
It wore you out to hear them, especially as you felt all the time that
their speculations on life and human nature were so _far_ off, that it
would be just wasting your breath to try to set them right. He'd stay
here in the study and smoke and maybe doze off a little, till they went
away. Marise had known he had business figuring to do