e word because Hilary Vance had shaken her original conception
of its pronunciation--"he gave her up for good."

"That is a blessing," said the novelist in a tone of yet greater relief.

He had been looking forward to a disagreeable and very likely hopeless
struggle with his friend's infatuation.

He walked down the passage and into the studio briskly. But not
quickly enough to prevent an expression of funereal gloom flooding
Hilary Vance's face.

"How are you?" said Mr. James cheerfully.

"In the depths--in the depths--my last illusion shattered," said the
artist in the gloomiest kind of despairing croak.

"Oh, you never know," said Mr. James.

"I shall never trust a woman again--never," said the artist in an
inexorable tone.

"But I thought you'd given up trusting them months ago," said Mr. James
in considerable surprise.

"I was deceived--this one seemed so different. She was a serpent--a
veritable serpent," said Hilary Vance in his deepest tone.

"Yes. They are apt to be like that," said Mr. James with some
carelessness. "May I have some tea?"

Gloomily the artist poured him out a cup of tea; gloomily he watched
him drink it. Heedless of his gloom, Mr. James plunged into an account
of his stay in Scotland, telling of the country, the food, and the
people with an agreeable, racy vivacity. Slowly the great cloud lifted
from Hilary Vance's ample face. He grew interested; he asked
questions; at last he said firmly:

"I must go to Scotland. Nature--Nature pure and undenied is what my
seared soul needs."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Mr. James.

"I shall wear a kilt," said Hilary Vance solemnly. "The winds of
heaven playing round my legs would assist healing nature; and I must be
in complete accord with the country."

"A kilt wouldn't be a bad idea," said Mr. James.

Hilary Vance paused and appeared to be thinking deeply; then he said:

"The Scotch peasant lassies, James--are they as attractive nowadays as
they appear to have been in the days of Burns?"

"I thought you'd done with women!" cried Mr. James.

"I _have_ done with women," said the poet with cold sternness. "I have
done with the cold-hearted, treacherous, meretricious women of the
town. But the simple, trusting and trustworthy country girl, the
daughter of the soil, in perpetual touch with nature--surely communion
with her would be healing too."

"Oh, hang it all!" said Mr. James quite despondently.

Hilary Vance plung