sion.

Until late into the night they talked about ideals in art. Neither Bobs
nor Martin showed any surprise at Jane's able expression of her thoughts
on the subject, but to Jerry it was a revelation. She had a directness
of attack upon an idea which he knew to be characteristic of her, but it
suddenly piqued his interest.

"After all, the art ideal is the personal ideal done large," said
Christiansen. "The artist can express only such truth as is the content
of his own heart and mind."

"That's like your modern ethical religion; it puts it all up to you. God
doesn't have to do a thing," protested Jerry.

"God has to be, just as truth has to be. That is the most important
thing, isn't it?" Jane asked him.

"That's it, Jane. Art is only the expression of God and truth. It is
only the big soul that lets them seep through and take form, without
being eaten by the acid of personal failings. If you are bitter, or
abnormal, or degenerate yourself, God and truth come through, marked
second class."

"It puts a tremendous responsibility upon the artist, as Paxton says,
but why should he shirk it? He is the priest of his gift, he must do
some penance," Christiansen said.

The summer morn was on its way before they went to their beds.

"Your friend Christiansen is a real person, Jane," Jerry said.

"_Our_ friend, Jerry," was her answer.

CHAPTER XIX

A long, rainy Sunday inaugurated Christiansen's visit. A cold, damp fog
blew in off the Sound, and an open fire proved a comfort. Jerry went off
to paint, Bobs disappeared, and Jane found herself alone with
Christiansen, in the first intimacy they had known for months.

"How goes the adventure?" he asked.

"Merrily."

"You are glad you started on it?"

"Oh, yes."

"You would be," he granted.

"Why would I be?"

"You belong to the 'Friends of Fate,' as some poet called them. Some of
us struggle against Fate, some of us make it an ally. You would do
that."

"But Fate, so far, has been my friend."

"Those long lonely years of work by yourself?"

"But I needed them. I learned everything of value that I know, during
those years."

"You see, I spoke truly," he smiled, nodding at her.

"You meet life that way, too," she said.

"I've met it all ways, my friend, fighting, acquiescent, not always with
valour. Now I have come to a time when I depend upon an armour, which
fends off outside troubles, but also keeps in those I already have."

"No one coul