had seen descend from Shelby's
office visualized itself sharply.

"Yes--poor devil--I chose Kiska."

Her mood veered, and she whirled impulsively toward him, all
womanliness and contrition.

"Forgive me. How could I know? I thought--I thought--"

"That it was some heeler with a vote to sell?"

Her face betrayed her.

"Forgive me," she repeated. "You would have done wrong to turn him
away because of me. I know of your noble deed--who does not? I am
proud of you, and wished to tell you so. I wanted to see you for
this--to praise your heroism. I've been your friend in that--that
other thing. I could see how the crowd, the exhilaration, the sense of
mastery, might lure one on. I looked at it dispassionately--with a
friend's eyes. I was loyal till I thought you held my friendship
lightly, and put politics before it. I own my mistake--my injustice."

Shelby had not dreamed of vindication so sweeping, and, with a word of
modest disclaimer, led the talk to pacific commonplace. It was too
late for the promised drive, and indeed neither of them thought of it
again till the door had shut between them.

In leaving, the man's glance was arrested by an object on the piano.

"What is that called?" he asked abruptly.

"The cast? That is my Victory--the famous Victory of Samothrace, which
suggested the poem everybody's reading. It's my despair. I've failed
at drawing it for years. The original is in the Louvre, and towers
gloriously over a staircase. I can shut my eyes and see it perfectly."

"Pretty old?" ventured Shelby.

"Oh, yes; it's an antique. See how ruffian Time has dealt with it."

The man walked slowly round the goddess, surveying her from every side.

"A day or two ago," he said simply, "I saw that image in a house, and,
in my ignorance, thought a servant had broken it. I wondered why the
people didn't pitch it out."

His tone went straight to her sympathy.

"Many are strangers in the kingdom of Art," she returned gently. "Most
of us must come to it like little children."

Shelby was silent for a moment. Then he said:--

"In Bernard Graves's opinion I am aesthetically dead--I believe those
were his words."

The girl started.

"I never repeated them," she protested.

"What," laughed Shelby, grimly, "has he told you that, too? He's
evidently fond of the phrase. Perhaps he is right. Yet I hope not.
I'd rather think I'm merely unborn. I am not a voluntary Ishmaelite.
I simply h