“Have a smoke,” glancing towards a tabourette, strewn with pipes, some of them disreputable enough to the eye. “Take any of them, you won’t be smoking any old, dry, dead memories--these are all ‘bought’ ones.” “I’ll help myself. I was just reading my mail. The boy handed it to me as I was leaving the office.” Folding a sheet of paper on which was written only a name and address, he took up one of the pipes and began filling it. So Esther Powel was in town. It was a daring entrance upon life for this little hard-headed, soft-hearted Southerner. He looked thoughtful; the soberness of his youth, rather than the labor of his manhood, had lightly marked his face. A sudden apprehension seized him for the pure, sweet life he knew so well. It was almost as much as her life was worth to come here so pretty and so friendless. She needed protection. This thought took possession of his mind to the exclusion of all else. In the old days he had been the only one who could bend her wayward will. Her faith in him was the blind unquestioning faith of a child. Her own feeling for him she did not reason with. She accepted it as a fact which was beyond her analysis. Under its spell she had grown and flourished against great odds. Why should she not continue to do so? “Briarley,” Glenn went on, filling his pipe, and packing it down with his thumb. “Suppose you knew a girl who was coming here alone, to study art, what would you consider the very best way to shield her?” “By keeping away from her.” “But, suppose she needed some one to look to--suppose she were young and knew no one. City life is a fiercely hardening process, you know.” “I’d get some woman friend to show her all there was to see, and that might cure her. So-called sin charms because it’s unknown.” “Don’t you think a girl’s love, if not unappreciated, is a shield and an inspiration?” Briarley shook his head. “Oh! of course, I forgot. You don’t believe in love.” “I do, as much as I believe in any other hell.” Andrews was silent. “Have your fun out, then we’ll be serious.” Their views were directly opposite, yet the enthusiasm of each made ground for respect, if not agreement. “While you now admit such a phantasy, Andrews, you get the credit of living by the head. It is generally understood that you never let scruples of the heart stand in the way.” “I am not a woman; besides, it is a matter of self-denial, and not unbelief. My love is my profession--long ago I made my choice between woman and art--if I had chosen woman that love would have ruled my life. I have given over much for my work; it has demanded sacrifice. I am just now beginning to prove myself equal to its despotic sovereignty. Briarley, unless you have tried for one thing all your life, you can’t conceive how bewildering and sweet a burst of it is for the first time. Under no conditions whatever would I sacrifice my best aims, my highest ambitions. It is better to be than to have. That’s my philosophy.”