The life of Emmet Roget had been exactly the antithesis. He was penniless in his youth. No sooner had he reached New York--to which initial step Osprey had assisted him--than he began to have means for his needs. At twenty-nine he left Europe, after having immersed himself in as much of French culture as an able young foreigner can obtain with diligence and enthusiasm, and studied the beginnings of the German theatre movement. A season was spent directing a Denver “little theatre,” but the provinces offered too little future and freedom. Once more in New York, Roget was designing sets and directing productions. In his late thirties he was instituting new methods into the theatre which were hailed and copied abroad. Many regarded Emmet Roget as primarily a “man for the future,” yet to him the present seemed invariably kind. Unlike his friend, nothing touched him; but whatever he touched gained from his personality, took on fascination and beauty. Hard at the core, immovable and unimpressionable, he was yet acutely sensitive, capable of profound appreciations, for music, for colour, for a scene, a woman--and surprisingly human in his contacts. No doubt it was this intuitive appreciation, coupled with early friendship, which had made him cling to Osprey through many hopeless seasons and experiments. The first two or three times that Roget visited him that summer, Osprey did not refer to his new tenants except casually. Later, however, when he had had a half dozen talks with Moira, he introduced the subject to his friend at the dinner table. “That’s rather a remarkable young woman I’ve got down there in the orchard,” he said. “Did I tell you that she painted?” “I believe so--something of the kind,” replied Roget. He had met with his share of disillusionment among his own protégés, and he was not given to more than passing interest in the mere fact that a young woman painted. “Well,” pursued Osprey, “I’ve got something to show you after dinner.” When they had finished he led the producer to a picture on the studio wall and switched on a light he had put up to illuminate it. “That’s one of hers,” he said. “I think there are extraordinarily good things in it as well as bad. At all events, I liked it so well I bought it.” Roget studied the picture for a moment, but without enthusiasm. “Yes,” he said. “Obviously you’ve influenced her already, or she’s known your work for some time.” “I don’t think it’s so obvious,” protested the other. “There’s personal insight in that modelling, and it has a back to it. Anyway, she’s young. Fact is, there’s something really unusual about the girl. I fancy she had things her own way at one time. The marks are there, overlaid by experience since.” “Of course,” laughed Roget quietly, “it makes a difference if you know the young lady.” “Hang it, my dear fellow, the girl is poor. Has two children, and a husband who may be talented and may be a fool. But he’s certainly no support.”