ss will give him more self-reliance. He needs it, if ever he is
to impose himself upon the dear public. Even the critics are prone to
take a man at his own valuation, and one of the best American musicians
is working in a corner, to-day, because he finds it a good deal more
interesting to work towards future successes than to exploit his past
ones in the eyes of the world."

Beatrix smiled, half in assent, half in amusement at his sudden energy.

"Mr. Arlt will succeed in time; he is only a boy yet. But, with genius
and energy and his real love for his art, there can be no doubt of his
future."

"That is as fate may decree," Thayer answered.

"Or Providence," she corrected him.

He shook his head.

"Miss Dane, the more I know of life, I am learning to write fate in
capitals, and to spell Providence with a little _p_. Things are pretty
well cut out for us."

She glanced at him with sudden intentness.

"Then I hope the scissors are sharp, and that Moira carries a steady
hand. We have to put up with our own indecisions; those of other people
are maddening."

"Doesn't that depend upon what the decision finally proves to be?" he
asked.

Her eyes had gone back to the fire, and her face was very grave.

"No; I would rather know where I am going. Anything is better than
drifting; it is a comfort to look steadily forward to the best or to the
worst." Suddenly she roused herself. "Mr. Thayer, do you realize that it
is two months since I have heard you sing?"

He roused himself quite as suddenly. In the slight pause which had
broken her speech, he had been making a swift, but futile effort to
chart the future. He knew that Lorimer was drifting carelessly,
thoughtlessly; he also knew that Beatrix was allowing herself to drift
idly in his wake. And how about himself? And would they all make the
same port in the end? If not, where would the diverging currents be
waiting for them?

His brain was working intently; but his voice was quite conventional, as
he rose.

"I hoped you would ask me. After a month or two of singing to strangers,
I begin to feel the need of something a little more personal. Will you
have the new songs, or the old?"

"The old, of course," she answered unhesitatingly.

He improvised for a moment; then he began to sing,--

"_The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me.
I count them over one by_--"

Abruptly he stopped singing and struck a dozen resona