t, but if his
cleverness is the thing the rabble want to buy, and he sells it to them,
his gift is doomed."

"Who's doomed?" said Jerry, coming in, glowing from his long tramp in
the rain.

"You are, if you paint Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, when you can do this,"
Christiansen answered.

"You like that?"

"This has feeling and excellent painting. It is real, vital, fine."

"I felt I had something there."

"You've got a pretty knack with pretty ladies, but don't let it ruin
you."

"Pretty ladies pay, it might be added, and we need the money just now."

"Face the truth, then. Swear to yourself this is a temporary aberration,
and be true to yourself, Paxton."

"Well, if I don't turn out to be my own best self with Jane, and Bobs,
and now you after me, I haven't any best self! My own opinion is that
I'm probably a rotten second-rater."

"Not even the greatest artists are first-rate all the time, Jerry," Jane
urged.

"That lets me out, then," he laughed. "I got some nice effects out there
in the fog; it's a soaking white blanket down on the beach."

"You didn't see Bobs?"

"No; is she out? You two been gabbling all morning?"

"Yes, we've had a fine gabble," laughed Christiansen. "I'll put on a
mackintosh and go in search of your Miss Bobs."

Jerry went to the door with him, and Jane stole off to her room. She did
not want to talk to Jerry just then; she wanted to think over all the
things she and Martin had said to each other during those friendly
hours.

Out on the muddy road, Christiansen strode along at a great pace. He
wanted to be alone, to think out his chaotic thoughts. He had come to
the Paxtons' with no idea at all that Jane was to have a child, and the
knowledge had come to him with a shock. He had long since admitted to
himself that he was more interested in Jane's development, in her search
for expression, than he had been in anything for years. He liked the
quality of her mind; he thought her possessed of that rare gift, a sense
of style. She had absorbed the masters, yet was no pupil of any of them.
He was convinced that she had a future, and it was of this he was
thinking when he exclaimed at the announcement of her marriage, "Child,
child, what have you done?" The baby would be another fetter, and she
must be free to work out her artistic salvation. It might be years
before that freedom came. Would her gift grow richer, or die for want of
use?

"How can we expect to manage it?" he growled