She never knew just how it happened. Certainly she had never encouraged him, though she had sometimes suspected her mother of doing so, and assuredly Paul Stanhope in no way corresponded to her ideal hero. A few years ago she would not have admitted that she had a masculine ideal, but now, as she put another cushion under her shoulder, she was forced to admit to herself that she might have one. Stanhope was big and strong and handsome. So far he answered to her ideal. But was he intellectual? He drove a four-in-hand splendidly, but that was hardly an intellectual employment. Was he literary? She remembered that in speaking once of Matthew Arnold’s “Monody on the Death of Arthur Hugh Clough,” she had noticed a distinctly blank expression on his face, and that he had tried to turn the conversation. But Miss Hungerford had been too quick for him and had herself changed the subject. That was one of her best points, as she acknowledged to herself. She could adapt herself to the people she happened to be talking to. But could she do so for a lifetime? Miss Hungerford shuddered and pressed her hands more tightly over her eyes, as if to keep out the vision of a husband who did not appreciate allusions to the “Cumnor cowslips.” Then in some way the phrase “Art is long” got into her head. She knew it, and was not afraid. She had said it to herself a thousand times to keep up her courage. She knew she was only beginning. Still she did think the critics might have noticed more positively that she was beginning. But nothing should turn her from her purpose. She was sure the American drama needed fresh material, fresh workers. She had studied French methods, and had determined to devote the rest of her life to adapting them to the American stage. Her youth would be well spent in regenerating our drama and elevating our literature, though she should not become famous until she was an old woman. Even with such high resolves for our country’s good, Miss Hungerford could not entirely relinquish all hope of becoming renowned. “An old woman!” She jumped up and, drawing the silk curtains slightly, gazed at herself in the mirror. She leaned forward and breathed lightly on the glass, so that the reflection might be more soft and exquisite. “It must be hard to lose one’s good looks!” she said, half aloud. Generally, when Miss Hungerford was tempted to be vain, she laid it all to an exalted, abstract love of the beautiful. Now she put her hands through her hair at each side and drew it down loosely, so that her face was half in shadow and altogether charming. And then she put it back suddenly, for she remembered that it had fallen down so once when she and Stanhope were riding together, and he had looked at her in a very openly admiring way. When he had next called she had worn it so, and his look and exclamation of delight when she had entered the room had warned her what risks she was running.