rom her. A woman always finds the way. Madeleine is no
exception. She loves you too well not to. But I'll go, my boy, and
try."

"You _must_ go. I tell you I can't and won't wait. I have done nothing
I'm ashamed of. Our wedding is off, of course, until I can look around
and see what I'm going to do, but that's no reason why we can't
continue to see each other."

* * * * *

The butler met him with a polite but decided: "Miss Eggleston is not
receiving."

"Take her that card," said Gregg. "I'll wait here for an answer."

The erect figure of the painter, his perfect address, coupled with the
air of command which always seemed a part of him, produced an
instantaneous curve in the butler's spine.

"Step into the library, sir," he said in a softer tone as he pushed
aside the heavy portieres for Adam to enter.

Gregg entered the curtain-muffled room with its marble statues, huge
Sevres vases and ponderous gold frames, swept a glance over the blue
satin sofas and cumbersome chairs in the hope of finding Madeleine
curled up somewhere among the heap of cushions, and then, hat in hand,
took up his position in front of the cheerless, freshly varnished
hearth to await that young lady's coming. What he would say or how he
would approach the subject nearest to his heart would depend on her
mental attitude. That she loved Phil as dearly as he loved her there
was no question. That she had begun to suffer for loss of him was
equally sure. A leaf from his own past told him that.

Again the butler's step was heard in the hall; there came a sound of
an opening door, and Mr. Eggleston entered.

As he approached the dealer's description of his white hair and red
face--a subject Franz Hal would have loved--came back to the painter.

Adam advanced to meet him with that perfect poise which distinguished
him in surprises of this kind. "Mr. Eggleston, is it not?"

"Yes, and whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"--glancing at the
card in his hand.

"I am Adam Gregg. We were to meet some time ago, when I was to paint
your portrait. This time I came to see your daughter Madeleine."

Mr. Eggleston's manner dropped thermometer-like from the summer heat
of graciousness to the zero of reserve: the portrait was no longer a
pleasant topic. Moreover he had always believed that the painter had
advised Philip the morning of his "asinine declination" of the trust
company's proposition.

"May I ask what for?" I