hair, and the sheet of music upright on the desk. Griggs sat in a low
chair not far from her, his still face turned towards her, his shadowy
eyes fixed on her features, his sinewy hands clasped round his crossed
knees. The nature of the great athlete showed itself even in repose--the
broad dark throat set deep in the chest, the square solidity of the
shoulders, the great curved lines along the straightened arms, the
small, compact head, with its close, dark hair, bent somewhat forward in
the general relaxation of the resting muscles. In his complete
immobility there was the certainty of instant leaping and flash-like
motion which one feels rather than sees in the sleeping lion.

Gloria looked at him thoughtfully with half-closed lids.

"I shall surprise you all," he repeated slowly, "but it will not be
genius."

"You will not surprise me," Gloria answered, still meeting his eyes. "As
for genius, what is it?"

"It is what you have when you sing," said Griggs. "It is what Reanda has
when he paints."

"Then why not what you do when you write?"

"The difference is simple enough. Reanda does things well because he
cannot help it. When I do a thing well it is because I work so hard at
it that the thing cannot help being done by me. Do you understand?"

"I always understand what you tell me. You put things so clearly. Yes, I
think I understand you better than you understand yourself."

Griggs looked down at his hands and was silent for a moment.
Mechanically he moved his thumb from side to side and watched the knot
of muscle between it and the forefinger, as it swelled and disappeared
with each contraction.

"Perhaps you do understand me. Perhaps you do," he said at last. "I have
known you a long time. It must be four years, at least--ever since I
first came here to work. It has been a long piece of life."

"Indeed it has," Gloria answered, and a moment later she sighed.

The wind blew the sheet of music against her. She folded it impatiently,
threw it aside and resumed her position, resting one elbow on the narrow
desk. The silence lasted several seconds, and the white curtains flapped
softly against the heavy ones.

"I wonder whether you understand my life at all," she said presently.

"I am not sure that I do. It is a strange life, in some ways--like
yourself."

"Am I strange?"

"Very."

"What makes you think so?"

Again he was silent for a time. His face was very still. It would have
been impossible t