He had begun his novel in Atlantic City, but interruptions had been frequent and interests conflicting; he had confined himself to a rough draft, working only at night and not vitally interested. But he had plunged into it as a beneficent refuge the day after he found himself shut up in this narrow house with Gita; and as art had been his queen-mistress for so many years, she showed but a few days of coyness before remounting her throne. His theme had not only absorbed but exhausted him. A cold shower and he was ready to meet Gita at the table or sit with her in that austere living-room of hers during the evening with nerves that longed only for rest. They rarely met before dinner, for he rose at nine and worked until four, and on what he called his off-days he went to a gymnasium, played golf, or took a long walk in the country. This last week the pace had been terrific and he had barely left his rooms. He hardly knew whether he loved his book or hated it. He always finished a novel with regret, and this assuredly had been a friend in need! But his nerves were jumping and his violated ego clamored for utterance. He gathered up the sheets resentfully. Why hadn’t he spun it out? Made it a third longer? Even now he might pad it, dazzling both critics and public with pyrotechnical brilliancy. But he shrugged impatiently. He was an artist and incapable of crime. Perhaps he was more artist than man. He wished to God he were. He took a hot bath and cold shower, and not daring to trust his unsteady hands, slipped out of the house and went to his barber. An hour later he was sauntering up Fifth Avenue to one of his clubs, cool, aloof, immaculately groomed, the frenetic artist submerged in the man of the world. This club, of which he was a member almost by inheritance, always called him at the end of an intellectual orgy. The reaction from the long strain was apt to be sharp and violent and it was some time before he cared even to lunch at The Sign of the Indian Chief, where the sophisticates foregathered and had created something resembling a salon. A woman novelist once told him that as soon as she finished a book she hastily adjusted her feminine wings and flew to the shops. His reaction was not dissimilar and he moved automatically toward men who hardly knew him as a novelist and were quietly amused by the word temperament. At half-past seven he met Gita in the Brittany drawing-room and gallantly raised her hand to his lips. “I feel as if I had just risen from the dead,” he said, smiling, “and had ascended not to earth but to a vision of paradise.” “Nice to hear your pretty compliments again, dear Eustace, and nicer still to have you back. But you look rather fagged—must have been working frightfully hard.” “Pegging away like an old cart-horse, but the job’s finished, thank heaven. A week or two of polishing and then nothing more arduous than proofs to correct.” “I’d love to help you with them.”