r this woman was one of the most
interesting things he had encountered in New York, a sort of fellowship
which no one else had evoked. The Grey One had felt something of this,
but had learned to expect so little, that she had not allowed herself
to think about it. Only she had felt suddenly easier, perceiving the
comprehension in his glance.

They had talked an hour, and were having tea. He admired some of her
pictures unreservedly. They were like her voice to him--lingering,
soft, mysteriously of the long-ago. Their settings were play-places
that he might have imagined. She believed what he said, but did not
approve of his perception. She had lost faith. It was the sailor part
of him that liked her pictures.

"I had great dreams when I came to New York three years ago," she said
somewhat scornfully. "For a time in Paris, I did things with little
thought, and they took very well. I must have been happy. Then when I
came here, all that period was gone. I was to be an artist--sheer,
concentrated, the nothing-else sort of an artist. And things went so
well for a time. That's queer when you think of it. The papers took me
up. They gave me an exhibition at the _Smilax Club_, and not a few
things were disposed of. In fact, when I learned that this studio was
to be let, I was so prosperous as to consider it none too adequate for
Margie Grey herself----

"Since then these things and others have been done, and they haven't
struck the vogue at all. First, I thought it was just one of those
changing periods which come to every artist, in which one does badly
during the transition. I have continued to do badly. It was not a
change of skin. I have become sour and ineffectual, and know it----"

"You won't mind if I say you are wrong?" Bedient asked quietly.

"No," she laughed. "Only please don't tell me that I'm only a little
ahead of my time; that presently these things will dart into the public
mood, and people will squabble among themselves to possess them----"

"I might have told you just that--if you hadn't warned me.... I like
your woods; they're the sort of woods that fairies come to; and I like
your fields and afternoons--I can hear the bees and forget myself in
them. I _know_ they're good."

The Grey One whipped out a match and cigarette from the pocket of her
blouse, lit it and stared at her covered easel. "You have your way,
don't you?" she asked, and her lips were tightened to keep from
trembling.

"It isn't a w