he would wait, and had asked him into the library, with what she now realized was mistaken kindness. From where they sat she had seen their reflections in the glass of the bookcase doors. His dark good looks, her delicate beauty, side by side, had made her catch her breath. Too bad such looks as his had nothing behind them. No response, not a spark, except when she had said what a sweet little thing Ellen was. He had bored her so that she ached all over.
I must pull myself together, she thought. I must not let his emptiness drain me. I must get to work.
But how futile it seems to go on offering my gift to a world so indifferent that in spite of all its praise it does not even see what I offer.
And yet, because I am an artist, I must go on. There is no rest for me, no comforting.
She felt a sudden longing to be with some one who really understood. She picked up the telephone.
Maurice du Sanglier was evidently out. The
