gentleman, this elderly man of letters,
who had seen the rise and fall of a dozen schools, was above the
influence of fads, and he whose books were among the classics even
before his death was infallible in his judgments of the work of the
younger writers. All the stages of their evolution were known to
him--all their mistakes, all their successes. He understood; and a story
by one of them, a poem, a novel, that bore the stamp of his approval,
was "sterling." Work that he declared a failure was such in very
earnest, and might as well be consigned as speedily as possible to the
grate or the waste-basket.

When, therefore, he had permitted himself to be even enthusiastic over
"Patroclus," Rosella had been elated beyond the power of expression, and
had returned home with blazing cheeks and shining eyes, to lie awake
half the night thinking of her story, planning, perfecting, considering
and reconsidering.

Like her short stories, the tale was of extreme delicacy in both
sentiment and design. It was a little fanciful, a little elaborate, but
of an ephemeral poetry. It was all "atmosphere," and its success
depended upon the minutest precision of phrasing and the nicest harmony
between idea and word. There was much in mere effect of words; and more
important than mere plot was the feeling produced by the balancing of
phrases and the cadence of sentence and paragraph.

Only a young woman of Rosella's complexity, of her extreme
sensitiveness, could have conceived "Patroclus," nor could she herself
hope to complete it successfully at any other period of her life. Any
earlier she would have been too immature to adapt herself to its
demands; any later she would have lost the spontaneity, the _jeunesse_,
and the freshness which were to contribute to its greatest charm.

The tale itself was simple. Instead of a plot, a complication, it built
itself around a central idea, and it was the originality of this idea,
this motif, that had impressed Trevor so strongly. Indeed, Rosella's
draft could convey no more than that. Her treatment was all to follow.
But here she was sure of herself. The style would come naturally as she
worked.

She was ambitious, and in her craving to succeed, to be recognized and
accepted, was all that passionate eagerness that only the artist knows.
So far success had been denied her; but now at last she seemed to see
light. Her "Patroclus" would make her claims good. Everything depended
upon that.

She h