Gladys came and rubbed and purred around his legs; the most recent
progeny toddled after her, ratty tails erect; sportive, casual little
optimists frisking unsteadily on wavering legs among the fading sunbeams
on the floor.

The sunbeams died out on wall and ceiling; high through the glass roof
above, a shoal of rosy clouds paled to saffron, then to a cinder gray.
And the first night-hawk, like a huge, erratic swallow, sailed into
view, soaring, tumbling aloft, while its short raucous cry sounded
incessantly above the roofs and chimneys.

Neville was still seated before his canvas, palette flat across his left
arm, the sheaf of wet brushes held loosely.

"I suppose you are dining with Valerie," he said.

"No."

He turned and looked at her, inquiringly.

"Valerie has gone away."

"Where?"

"I don't know, Kelly.... I was not to know."

"I see." He picked up a handful of waste and slowly began to clean the
brushes, one by one. Then he drove them deep into a bowl of black soap.

"Shall we dine together here, Rita?"

"If you care to have me."

"Yes, I do."

He laid aside his palette, rang up the kitchen, gave his order, and
slowly returned to where Rita was seated.

Dinner was rather a silent affair. They touched briefly and formally on
Querida and his ripening talent prematurely annihilated; they spoke of
men they knew who were to come after him--a long, long way after him.

"I don't know who is to take his place," mused Neville over his claret.

"You."

"Not his place, Rita. He thought so; but that place must remain his."

"Perhaps. But you are carving out your own niche in a higher tier. You
are already beginning to do it; and yesterday his niche was the
higher.... Yet, after all--after all--"

[Illustration: "Then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand
behind him and look at what he had done."]

He nodded. "Yes," he said, "what does it matter to him, now? A man
carves out his resting place as you say, but he carves it out in vain.
Those who come after him will either place him in his proper sepulchre
... or utterly neglect him.... And neglect or transfer will cause him
neither happiness nor pain.... Both are ended for Querida;--let men
exalt him above all, or bury him and his work out of sight--what does he
care about it now? He has had all that life held for him, and what
another life may promise him no man can know. All reward for labour is
here, Rita; and the reward lasts only while t