left out. Now, with
the exodus of a few and the marrying of many, it had narrowed down to
three of them--herself, Martin Wetherby, and Sarah Farraday, who was her
best friend during childhood and girlhood; and Sarah, an earnest, blonde
girl with nearsighted eyes and insistent upper front teeth, had, so to
speak, stopped playing. She had converted her dead father's old stable
into a studio by means of art burlap and framed photographs of famous
composers, and was giving piano lessons daily from ten to four. This left
the field entirely to Jane, and Jane was carrying about with her an
increasing conviction that she was not going to do the thing every one
expected her to do.

It came curiously to a crisis on a mild and unimportant day in November.
Jane spent a footless forenoon in her own room in the green-shuttered,
elm-shaded house where she lived with her adoring Aunt Lydia Vail, trying
to start a story. Miss Vail took great care to tiptoe whenever she passed
her door, and refrained from summoning her to the telephone, but her
pleasant old voice, explaining why her niece could not come, was clearly
audible.

"Yes, dear, she's at home, but she's at work at her writing, and you know
I never disturb her.... Yes, she's been shut away in her room since right
after breakfast.... Yes, it's a new story, but I don't know what it's
about. I'll ask her at dinner.... How's your mother, dear?... Oh, that's
_good_! That's what I always use and it never fails to relieve me. You
give her my love, won't you? I'll have Jane call you up when she comes
out for dinner."

The story simply would not start. It lay inert in the back of her brain,
listening for the telephone and Aunt Lydia's softly padding footfalls,
and at last she gave it up and got out the paper she was to read on "The
Modern Irish Dramatists" before the Tuesday Club that afternoon and went
carefully over its typed pages.

"Oh," said Aunt Lydia at the dinner table, her plump face clouding over,
"I'm _sorry_ the story didn't go well! It wasn't because you were
interrupted, was it, dear? I was especially careful this morning. You
know, I believe, without realizing it, you're just the least mite nervous
about your program. I know I am myself, though I know, of course, you're
going to do just beautifully."

Three and a half hours later, thirty-four matrons and spinsters were
warmly asserting that she had. They smiled up at her where she stood on
the shallow little platform