s down the wings of the soul and prevents
it from soaring upward to the sun.

When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that
Clarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went
over his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that he
could not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened
their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at once
that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several
weeks, if not longer.

Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a little
place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernest
opened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading it
the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into
wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his
face. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied
analysis. Their souls were out of tune. It might only be a passing
disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless.
Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the
vagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similar
mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he
left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as
in an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a
cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page.

It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of
Reginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely,
radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing
the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word
was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence
in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the
transformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of this
man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of
mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection
for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke.

XVII

The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial
tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in
the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of
work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel
a