"And ever from the shadows came Voices to pierce her heart like flame, The great bats fanned her with their wings, The voices called her name. "But yet her look turned not aside From the black deep where dreams abide, Where worlds and pageantries lay dead Beneath that viewless tide. "Her elbow on her knee was set, Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet No man might name that look she wore, Nor any man forget." All day long in the pleasant June weather they worked together over the picture; and if he really knew what he was about, it is uncertain, for his thoughts were of Valerie; and he painted as in a dream, and with a shadowy splendour that seemed even to him unreal. They scarcely spoke; now and then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done. The first time she thought to herself, "Querida!" But the second time she remained mute; and when the daylight was waning to a golden gloom in the room she came a third time and stood with one hand on his arm, her eyes fixed upon the dawning mystery on the canvas--spellbound under the sombre magnificence already vaguely shadowed forth from infinite depth of shade. Gladys came and rubbed and purred around his legs; the most recent progeny toddled after her, ratty tails erect; sportive, casual little optimists frisking unsteadily on wavering legs among the fading sunbeams on the floor. The sunbeams died out on wall and ceiling; high through the glass roof above, a shoal of rosy clouds paled to saffron, then to a cinder gray. And the first night-hawk, like a huge, erratic swallow, sailed into view, soaring, tumbling aloft, while its short raucous cry sounded incessantly above the roofs and chimneys. Neville was still seated before his canvas, palette flat across his left arm, the sheaf of wet brushes held loosely. "I suppose you are dining with Valerie," he said. "No." He turned and looked at her, inquiringly. "Valerie has gone away." "Where?" "I don't know, Kelly.... I was not to know." "I see." He picked up a handful of waste and slowly began to clean the brushes, one by one. Then he drove them deep into a bowl of black soap. "Shall we dine together here, Rita?" "If you care to have me." "Yes, I do." He laid aside his palette, rang up the kitchen, gave his order, and slowly returned to where Rita was seated. Dinner was rather a silent affair. They touched briefly and formally on Querida and his ripening talent prematurely annihilated; they spoke of men they knew who were to come after him--a long, long way after him. "I don't know who is to take his place," mused Neville over his claret. "You." "Not his place, Rita. He thought so; but that place must remain his." "Perhaps. But you are carving out your own niche in a higher tier. You are already beginning to do it; and yesterday his niche was the higher.... Yet, after all--after all--"