Persistently, he thought, and without any real need, she had harped on this, fighting chimeras, a chance danger in the future; though he had never given her any real reason, and had never even planned to sin against her in any way--never. She had thus tried to poison his own mind in regard to himself and his art--and yet--and yet---- Ah, those eyes of other women, their haunting beauty, the flitting something they said to him of infinite, inexpressible delight. Why had his life been so very hard? One of the disturbing things about all this was the iron truth which it had driven home, namely, that Nature, unless it were expressed or represented by some fierce determination within, which drove one to do, be, cared no whit for him or any other man or woman. Unless one acted for oneself, upon some stern conclusion nurtured within, one might rot and die spiritually. Nature did not care. “Blessed be the meek”--yes. Blessed be the strong, rather, for they made their own happiness. All these years in which he had dwelt and worked in this knowledge, hoping for something but not acting, nothing had happened, except to him, and that in an unsatisfactory way. All along he had seen what was happening to him; and yet held by convention he had refused to act always, because somehow he was not hard enough to act. He was not strong enough, that was the real truth--had not been. Almost like a bird in a cage, an animal peeping out from behind bars, he had viewed the world of free thought and freer action. In many a drawing-room, on the street, or in his own home even, had he not looked into an eye, the face of someone who seemed to offer understanding, to know, to sympathize, though she might not have, of course; and yet religiously and moralistically, like an anchorite, because of duty and current belief and what people would say and think, Ernestine’s position and faith in him, her comfort, his career and that of the children--he had put them all aside, out of his mind, forgotten them almost, as best he might. It had been hard at times, and sad, but so it had been. And look at him now, old, not exactly feeble yet--no, not that yet, not quite!--but life weary and almost indifferent. All these years he had wanted, wanted--wanted--an understanding mind, a tender heart, the some one woman--she must exist somewhere--who would have sympathized with all the delicate shades and meanings of his own character, his art, his spiritual as well as his material dreams---- And yet look at him! Mrs. Haymaker had always been with him, present in the flesh or the spirit, and--so----