child and will always
remain a child. I think most artists are more or less so. Children can't
bear criticism or delay--uncertain delay--that's Steve. On the other
hand, if he were encouraged, kept free on the financial side, left at
liberty to work when he felt the mood, and then only, then--I realize
it's a big 'if' and a big contract for some one--he'd make good. Have I
answered your question?"

"Yes. And here's another: Is it worth while?"

"To bolster him, you mean; to 'pull him out of the mud,' to use his own
phrase?"

"No; that would be a waste of energy. I mean to keep him out permanently,
to continue pulling indefinitely."

For a long time the two men sat in silence.

"God knows," said Randall at last. "I've asked myself the same question
for years--and couldn't answer it. It's as big as the universe. Steve is
simply an atom. It's unanswerable."

In the pause following Roberts lit one of the seemingly inexhaustible
black cigars, after proffering its mate. Again the two sat there, the
blue haze of mutual understanding gathering between them.

"I say it's unanswerable," repeated Randall. "It's the old problem of the
young supporting the uselessly old, the well serving the incurably
diseased. It means eternal vigilance from some one, eternal sacrifice.
It's insoluble, neither more nor less."

"Yes," said Roberts. "I've found it so--insoluble. Particularly so in
this case."

Slowly Randall's glance lifted, met the other's eyes. That instant, as a
flame is born, came full understanding between them.

"Yes, particularly so in this case," echoed Roberts; "for it means a
woman's sacrifice, one particular woman's sacrifice. Nothing else in the
world will do--nothing."

It was the beginning of personal confidence, the halting-point for
conversation between these two. Both knew it and neither crossed the
line. They merely waited until a digression should come naturally.
Roberts it was who at last introduced it, and in a manner so matter of
fact that the other was all but deceived.

"Has Armstrong been doing anything lately in a literary way--anything, I
mean, that justifies your opinion?" he asked abruptly.

"No, not that I know of; absolutely nothing."

"You're relying, then, on past impressions merely."

"Yes; specifically the last novel he wrote,--the one of a year or a year
and a half or so ago."

"You haven't by any chance a copy of the manuscript, I suppose?"

"No."

"You could doubtless get