“Go on. Every man has the right to work out his own destiny.” Briarley filled his glass again. “The way he can get the most satisfaction is the way he generally chooses.” “Satisfaction hurts the soul. There is nothing worse than satiety of the senses. I would never let myself become thoroughly satisfied.” “You couldn’t ask for more than the success of that last book. The critics rendered you distinguished services,” said Briarley. “I understand the sale was enormous.” “It has sold very well, but that only forces me to wrestle the harder to keep up the standard of that reputation. If I cared for a woman, my heart and soul could be loyal to her, but my time and vitality belong entirely to my art. ‘Women are born to live and love. They only really live after they love.’” Andrews went on as though the other had endorsed his doctrine. “Love is an uplifting force to genius. A man would be doing a chivalrous act to win and hold the devotion of a girl in such an instance as I have cited.” “It would be a risk.” “Yes, but in my judgment the advantage is much greater than the risk.” “It would be a responsibility.” “I like responsibility; it braces a man to bear it.” “Well, the fellow who carries out your mad project will settle for his folly.” “If he did, I’d stand by him in it.” “He couldn’t stand by himself. There’d be the trouble--he’d fall.” Glenn Andrews knocked the ashes from his pipe and got up, straightening his shoulders and smoothing his hair with his hands. His mind was made up. He did not expect to fall. Knowing himself to be his own master, he felt that to lend himself to anything that would hurt her ideal of him would be impossible. “Where now?” “To find somebody looking for trouble,” Glenn said, with a smile. “Don’t forget the Sunday night concert, Andrews. I’m counting on you. Here are half the box tickets. Do what you please with them.” “I shall be there. Thank you.” CHAPTER VI. GLENN ANDREWS walked down the street, which had been written on the sheet of paper in his pocket. “No. 23.” He looked up and saw that No. 23 was a hospital. There must be some mistake. No, that was plainly what it said. He stood looking at the door in an anxious manner. “Could she be here--ill?” He had drawn a charming picture of her, a radiant specimen of perfect health. His pulse quickened. The curtains parted and a girl appeared at the window. Her eyes were dim, her face ghastly--the look on it was neither pain nor age--it was a look of hopelessness. The rich, gleaming hair made a glory about her head, as the light caught its golden sheen. That was like her hair. A moment she stood there, looking down the street, then dropped the curtain. He saw her turn and go sorrowfully upstairs. The light from the hall chandelier was very brilliant--his face cleared. A better look satisfied him it was not Esther Powel. He pondered a minute, then started down the street again. She had evidently given him the wrong number.