But the individuals, when detached from the conglomerate mass of humanity--what was this life to them? How far was it a gracious thing to yonder bawling cheap-jack, with his red, sodden face? And the factory girl, with her feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing pinched, soulless features, looking hungrily at his Brummagem wares; the fat, unintelligent workman's wife gossiping loudly of sickness, death, and funerals; the besotted navvy stumbling along in the grip of a soberer friend--how far were they intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of life? Again as of old these questions presented themselves to Clytie. During these latter months she had been too closely confronted with the problems of her own personality to interest herself in that of others. But now a newly awakened self-knowledge had given her a key to mysteries to the elucidation of which she had once devoted all her artistic powers. She had arrived at the truth of the relativity of individual life. There was no such thing as absolute fulness of existence. Everyone--coster, factory girl, statesman, poet--was striving, each in his way, after a completer life, but the ideal of completeness was limited by each individual's capacity for action, sensation, and thought. Hence yonder factory girl's life might be relatively as full as her own, the hunger for the unknown that would complete it as loudly clamourous. Clytie was glad for the moment, almost happy. New artistic stirrings seemed to be at work within her soul. Heretofore she had sought a solution for the problems of life through her art. Might not this newer knowledge and more extensive sympathy enable her to present finely perceived truths, thus making her art less self-centred, more universal? This train of thought was working through her mind as she sat by the window, resting her cheek on her arm. Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves into a medley of dim associations, which in their turn became lost in drowsiness. Worn out by the physical strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of the uproar that arose from the hurrying street. Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside her in the room, and, starting up, beheld Kent looking down upon her. “You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping by the open window like that,” he said in his kindly way. “And yet I did not like to wake you.” “I do feel a little cramped,” said Clytie, rising. “But the night is hot. Bring another chair and sit down. I shall not go to sleep again.” Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side of the window, Clytie with face half averted looking into the street, Kent leaning forward, gazing at her with troubled eyes. For some moments neither spoke. At last Kent broke the silence. “Clytie!” “Yes?” “Was I wrong to come in? Do you want to be alone? Tell me frankly and I will go.”