“I pass over the question of the evil of New York. Evil comes from inside of us--it is not absorbed. If we are pure, it does not touch us; it goes by. I believe it would go by you. There are no temptations in New York any more than there are at home, for those who do not want to be tempted. You are, no doubt, a far better judge of this matter than your minister--I am heterodox enough for that. “There is another side. No one knows genius so well as itself. If you have it, New York is the place for you. The greater the body, the greater the attraction for the great centre. I would not counsel you to disregard its force, for I believe only true motives move you. And if you know yourself and believe in yourself, you will find a way to beat down other difficulties. There are ways of living in New York cheaply. You might essay the purgatorial round of music lessons; your violin might earn its own halo--who knows? “I take it you would come alone. There are places where young women, unattended, are made welcome and cared for; and there are places where earnest workers congregate where there are ordinary comforts at low rates--these, if you should decide to try the venture, you must let me tell you of. I should be glad indeed if what knowledge I have of the city might be of some service to you. “In closing this letter, I feel that, after all, I have told you nothing. You have, no doubt, considered the question in all its bearings. Such a step is a serious one--far too much so for me to intrude upon it. Be true to yourself--to your ideas, your judgment, and your reason. If you do this, you will be true to your art. Do not hesitate to write me if I can help you, but you must not ask me to advise you as to coming. ‘What do I think of New York for you?’ I don’t know! “Glenn Andrews.” CHAPTER V. HERE was a man who had lost the romance of life. Not a shred of sentiment was left. Richmond Briarley strode about his den, pulling his smoking jacket from a pair of vicious-looking antlers above the door, his slippers from the wings of Cupid poised above the glorious Psyche. There was a princely abandon in the luxurious den he called “home.” Looking about it, one would conceive him to be a man quite beyond the ordinary--if the trophies, pictures, statuary, bespoke his individuality. “Don’t wait for me, Andrews, go ahead,” he called out from an alcove. If his heart was not open to his friends, his finest wines were, and the one is often mistaken for the other. Richmond Briarley had ample, irregular features, hair and eyes the blackest black, and an olive gray complexion. There was something stoic in the closing of his lips, set around with circular wrinkles, revealing the traits peculiar to his type. He hadn’t the least regard for the past, nor fault to find with the future. Coming out, he poured a glass of wine and drank with Glenn Andrews.