Sometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out for luncheon realizing they would never have been seated together in a restaurant had she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let him alone; she knew that. She tried to wish that she had--tried to regret everything, anything; and could not, even when within her the faint sense of alarm awoke amid the softly unchangeable unreality of these last six weeks of spring. Was this then really love?--this drifting through alternating dreams of shyness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flashes of fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths of cloud? She had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscious only that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself. She was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dimly understood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was missing--her conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died? Were the little, inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its disintegration? Or its immortal vitality? Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of its loss--dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember nothing to be sorry for. And there was so much. Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and her, amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters. That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was a nine days’ gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was forgotten--as are all wonders--in nine days. Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman’s name, and a man’s--Drene’s closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the busy--not that the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it quickly, having other matters to think about. Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own condescending advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously inflammable attentions elsewhere. He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his dapper confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first bored, grew irritable. “What are you talking about?” he said sharply. “I’m talking about Cecile White,” continued Quair, looking rather oddly at the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. “I didn’t suppose you could be interested in any woman--not that I mind your interfering with any little affair between Cecile and me--” “There wasn’t any.” “I beg your pardon, Drene--” “There wasn’t any!” repeated Drene, with curt contempt. “Don’t talk about her, anyway.” “You mean I’m not to talk about a common artist’s model--” “Not that way.” “Oh. Is she yours?” “She isn’t anybody’s, I fancy. Therefore, let her alone, or I’ll throw you out of doors.” Quair said to Guilder after they had departed: