face like fine old lace, somehow,--but perhaps I
always think of that because she wore a lace scarf on her hair. She had
such a flavor of life about her. She had known Gordon and Livingstone
and Beaconsfield when she was young,--every one. She was the first woman
of that sort I'd ever known. You know how it is in the West,--old people
are poked out of the way. Aunt Eleanor fascinated me as few young women
have ever done. I used to go up from the works to have tea with her, and
sit talking to her for hours. It was very stimulating, for she couldn't
tolerate stupidity."

"It must have been then that your luck began, Bartley," said Wilson,
flicking his cigar ash with his long finger. "It's curious, watching
boys," he went on reflectively. "I'm sure I did you justice in the
matter of ability. Yet I always used to feel that there was a weak spot
where some day strain would tell. Even after you began to climb, I stood
down in the crowd and watched you with--well, not with confidence. The
more dazzling the front you presented, the higher your facade rose, the
more I expected to see a big crack zigzagging from top to bottom,"--he
indicated its course in the air with his forefinger,--"then a crash and
clouds of dust. It was curious. I had such a clear picture of it. And
another curious thing, Bartley," Wilson spoke with deliberateness and
settled deeper into his chair, "is that I don't feel it any longer. I am
sure of you."

Alexander laughed. "Nonsense! It's not I you feel sure of; it's
Winifred. People often make that mistake."

"No, I'm serious, Alexander. You've changed. You have decided to leave
some birds in the bushes. You used to want them all."

Alexander's chair creaked. "I still want a good many," he said rather
gloomily. "After all, life doesn't offer a man much. You work like the
devil and think you're getting on, and suddenly you discover that you've
only been getting yourself tied up. A million details drink you dry.
Your life keeps going for things you don't want, and all the while
you are being built alive into a social structure you don't care a rap
about. I sometimes wonder what sort of chap I'd have been if I hadn't
been this sort; I want to go and live out his potentialities, too. I
haven't forgotten that there are birds in the bushes."

Bartley stopped and sat frowning into the fire, his shoulders thrust
forward as if he were about to spring at something. Wilson watched him,
wondering. His old pupil al