an
stout, but rude in the extreme to dub her fat? That is one of the
problems I have never been able to solve. I used the wrong word in
regard to Mrs. Stanley, one night, and she overheard me. Since then, she
hauls in her latch-string hand over hand, whenever I turn the corner."

"Do you mind, Bobby?" Sally inquired. "The two most peaceful years of my
social life were the years immediately following the day I advised Mrs.
Stanley not to attempt _Juliet_ in public. Lately, I have wished that
her memory were just a bit more retentive. Tell me, has anybody seen
Beatrix, this week?"

"She was at Carnegie Hall, last night."

Arlt's face brightened.

"Really?"

"Yes, I coaxed her into going. You ought to feel honored, Arlt; it is
the first music she has heard, this season."

"Hasn't she been to hear Mr. Thayer?"

"No; she hasn't heard him since his first season. I tell her she has no
idea how he has developed, nor how much she is losing; but she seems to
have lost her love for music."

"Poor, dear girl! I don't wonder," Sally said impetuously.

But Arlt interposed.

"Isn't there a certain comfort to be gained from it?" he asked. "I
hoped--I had thought music was to inspire and help people, not to amuse
them."

"It does in theory," Bobby returned; "only now and then it reminds one
of things, and upsets the whole scheme of inspiration. But I was
surprised that Beatrix went, last night."

"What did she say?" Arlt inquired, with a frankness which yet bore no
taint of egotism.

"Not very much; but her face at the close of your _Andante_ told the
story. You touched her on the raw, Arlt; but you roused her pluck to
bear it. I think she will send you a note, to-day."

"I wonder if you realize what an event for your friends this symphony
was," Sally broke in.

Arlt smiled. With growing manhood, his gravity also had grown; but his
slow little smile caused his face to light wonderfully. Denied all claim
to beauty, there was a great charm in the simple, modest dignity with
which he bore himself. He answered Sally's last words with an
earnestness that became him well.

"Without my friends, my symphony would have been left unwritten."

"And it was a perfect success," Sally added.

"Success is never perfect," he returned a little sadly. "Its merit must
lie in its incompleteness, for that just urges us on to something
beyond. The success on which we rest, is no better than a failure. Some
day, I shall begin my ideal