ed by the eye, Thayer held
the world in the hollow of his hand. The ear alone betrayed the fact
that he found the world as hollow as the curve of his encircling
fingers. But when Thayer squared his jaw and threw back his shoulders
before one of his great arias, eye and ear united in saying that the
time would come when, by sheer might of his will, he would fill up that
world until the weight of its fulness should fit his encircling hand
with a contact as absolute as it would be lasting. Meanwhile, he was
biding his time.

Nominally, he was going to Germany for a little study and much rest. In
reality, he was considering an invitation to sing at Bayreuth, that
summer; and among his papers was an unsigned contract which would keep
him in European cities during the whole of the following winter. He was
leaving his plans undecided, until he could hear definite news from
Beatrix.

Living within a block of her house, he had nevertheless seen her but
once since Lorimer's death. Once only, less than a week after the
funeral, she had received him when he called. The call had been an
uncomfortable one for them both. Neither had been able to forget that
morning together in the cottage. It had been impossible for them to meet
as if that hour had never been; neither could they accept the truth
which had revealed itself at that time, and face its consequences. As
yet, the time for that had not come. Nevertheless, they both felt
relieved when the call was ended. Living side by side in the same social
circle, they could not fail to meet, as time went on and Beatrix resumed
her old place in the world. Any change in their attitude to each other
would not pass unchallenged. They were bound to meet; it was imperative
that they should meet in precisely the old way. They both were wise
enough to feel that the sooner they met, the better. Unbroken ice
thickens most quickly. However, when Thayer, after a half-hour of
platitudes, went down the steps, Beatrix, locked into her own room,
paced the floor, to and fro, to and fro again, like a caged panther,
while Thayer walked the streets until time to dress for the stage, and
then sang the part of _Valentine_ with a furious madness of despair
which merely added another stiff little leaf to his garland of fame. The
next day, the papers waxed enthusiastic over Thayer's temperament, and
Beatrix, alone in her room, read the papers and smiled sadly to herself
as she read. Thayer's fate was, in a sense