He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle and fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and sometimes she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which she was embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in the stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite, as though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into her half-dreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she opened her eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled. But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window from the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on whimpering wings for a moment and then sheered out into the sunlight. They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he not interrupting. Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical career determined upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of destitution--the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter who employed models--not anything unusual, not even dramatic. He nodded as she ended: “Have you saved anything?” “A hundred dollars.” “That’s fine.” She smiled, then sighed unconsciously. “You are thinking,” he said, “that youth is flying.” She smiled wistfully. “Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.” She nodded. “You could have married.” “Why?” she asked, troubled. “To obtain the means for a musical education.” She gazed at him in amazement, then: “I could go out on the street, too, as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful.” “Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,” he said. She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond--Graylock’s light eyes riveted upon them both. “You know,” he said, under his breath, “that I shall not marry you. But--would you care to begin your studies again?” There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her lip tremble. “I had not thought you meant to ask me--that. I do not quite understand what you mean.” “I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?” “I was not sure you cared--enough--” “Do you--for me?” “Before I say that I do--care for you--” she began, tremulously--“tell me that I have nothing to fear--” Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who stared back at him. Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike beauty of her.