rough the din,
a pealing of faraway chiming bells. When I closed the window again,
Frieda took the chafing-dish for a housewifely cleaning. Baby Paul had
been sleeping on my bed and Frances was kneeling beside him, looking at
the sleeping tot. For a moment she had forgotten us and the trivialities
of the entertainment, and was breathing a prayer for her man-child.

Thus passed the New Year's eve, and on the next morning Frances was up
early, as usual, and went off to work. I pottered idly about my room
till Mrs. Milliken chased me out. On the afternoon of the first Sunday
of the year Gordon came in again.

Until last Autumn he had invaded my premises perhaps once in a couple of
months, but, now, he is beginning to come as regularly as Frieda
herself. He gives me the impression of being rather tired, and I explain
this by the fact that he leads too active a life and takes too much out
of himself. I am sure few men ever painted harder than he does. When I
watch him at his work, it looks very easy, of course, but I know better.
His is powerful, creative work, such as no man can accomplish without
putting all his energy into his toil. I am often exhausted after a few
hours of writing, and I am sure that Gordon also feels the drag and the
travail of giving birth to the children of his soul. Then, after a day
of this sort of thing, he goes out to the theatres or the Opera and
prolongs the night at the club and delves into books, for he is a great
reader, especially of what he terms modern thought and philosophy. The
first rays of good working light find him again at his canvas, sometimes
pleased and sometimes frowning, giving me often the impression of a
latter-day Sisyphus.

"I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last
year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that.
The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of
drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint
them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the
remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and
dried."

"I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But----"

"Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for."

"I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know
whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a
leisurely way as you hope to."

"Don't you worry, old m