the great and rich of every land, their country
seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only
remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must
be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly
well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself
the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear
with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a
little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and
do her will.

She glanced at the other letters upon the table. "Barney," she cried,
seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. "Barney, poor old
boy!" A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where
had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had
been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid
triumphs, Barney had not appeared. "Of course, he'll be there," she
murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could
not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages
to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful
as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled
a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly
shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be
her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek.
Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be
free to study, and--well, it was better to be free till she had made her
name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney
would come to her.

But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great
love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He
was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she
had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away
from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so
incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had
her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her,
a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some
finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks
and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public.
Her reward would come when she had broug