To feed his intellectual affections, he relied on the continuance of his college friendship with the brilliant and vivacious Morris Kenyon. But herein he was doomed to disappointment. After a brief spell of vain struggling for literary recognition in London, Leo settled down, contentedly enough, to obscurity in the depth of the country. There he spent peaceful days occupied in highly intellectual yet miserably paid writings. Each year he became more of a recluse--more out of touch with the times. Morris Kenyon likewise altered. Plunged into the vortex of town life, seeing and doing everything, going everywhere, courted and flattered and popular, not only on account of his great wealth but for his more personal attractions--every year he drifted farther from being the Morris of yore. The change in both men was but gradual, and through varying stages of disillusion and disappointment, their ardent friendship was long in dying. But the time came when all ended--even correspondence ceased. Leo's marriage was more successful. His wife made strenuous efforts to rise to his heights, while his admiration of her stately loveliness never waned. Their first child was a boy, who died in infancy, but ere long little Evarne came as consoler. Leo had wished for a daughter, and had always spoken of the expected baby by the Greek name he had already chosen for her--Evarne. He had strong theories on pre-natal influence, and put them into practice. He read and discussed with his wife poetry and the noblest prose works. Everywhere she turned her eyes in her home she beheld representations of female beauty--magnificent or placid. On the wall of her bed-chamber was a barbaric, richly-hued painting of a Babylonian slave-market. It showed a group of women decking themselves before entering the Market Square, which could be seen through an opening of the tent. They were of many nationalities, but each in her own way represented physically perfect womanhood. Near to this hung a contrasting picture--a delicate symphony in blue and gold and snowy white. It was the Catholic's Madonna, with placid lips and large uplifted eyes that told of thoughts beyond this world--chaste, calm and pure. In the corner of the room by the window stood a large cast of a famous antique nude statue of Venus. So perfect was it--the glorious muscles of the body dimpling so gently, so graciously--that even Leo's unimaginative wife could find and feel something of what is soothing and peace-giving in such beauty. Sometimes of an early morning a narrow beam of light would creep into the darkened room between the drawn curtains and illuminate just this statue. Then the young wife, lying wakeful, would fix her eyes on the form of the Goddess of Beauty, drinking in its divine influence, remembering her husband's assurance that its contemplation would go far towards making the little daughter that was to come likewise strong and beautiful.