She never knew, then or after, how she reached this mystic climax of effacement; she was only conscious, through her anguish, of that lift of the heart which made one of the saints declare that joy was the inmost core of sorrow. For it was indeed a kind of joy she felt, if old names must serve for such new meanings; a surge of liberating faith in life, the old _credo quia absurdum_ which is the secret cry of all supreme endeavour. PART II I “Does it look nice, mother?” Dick Peyton met her with the question on the threshold, drawing her gaily into the little square room, and adding, with a laugh with a blush in it: “You know she’s an uncommonly noticing person, and little things tell with her.” He swung round on his heel to follow his mother’s smiling inspection of the apartment. “She seems to have _all_ the qualities,” Mrs. Denis Peyton remarked, as her circuit finally brought her to the prettily appointed tea-table. “_All_,” he declared, taking the sting from her emphasis by his prompt adoption of it. Dick had always had a wholesome way of thus appropriating to his own use such small shafts of maternal irony as were now and then aimed at him. Kate Peyton laughed and loosened her furs. “It looks charmingly,” she pronounced, ending her survey by an approach to the window, which gave, far below, the oblique perspective of a long side-street leading to Fifth Avenue. The high-perched room was Dick Peyton’s private office, a retreat partitioned off from the larger enclosure in which, under a north light and on a range of deal tables, three or four young draughtsmen were busily engaged in elaborating his architectural projects. The outer door of the office bore the sign: _Peyton and Gill, Architects_; but Gill was an utilitarian person, as unobtrusive as his name, who contented himself with a desk in the workroom, and left Dick to lord it alone in the small apartment to which clients were introduced, and where the social part of the business was carried on.