Three houses stood far separate in the City. The house of the Deanes where the old world of David dissolved into a frantic chaos: the house of the Company in whose gathered fires his new world formed from the running welter: the house on whose top floor lived Thomas Rennard. These houses threw a vivid stirring like the glow of lamps. The spheres of their activity converged. As they burned and moved, a myriad other burnings rose and met them, intermingled and transfused them. A single light, drenching the City. It fell like an eye upon these two talking: it fell with the same singleness upon each spot where men and women were, where men and women loved. From each spot came a glow, from the myriad glows rose back again the transfusing fire, deeper than consciousness, more real than the separate lives which fueled it, as the glow of coal is deeper and more real than the black coal itself. But through the brightness was a vibrancy: and where David and Tom sat, had they been wise enough to follow its receding lines, their vision must have reached back to the three houses. From other spots the grain of the light traced back to other sources. From these sources forth again to farther ones.... To a white cottage in the Eastern village, to the leaning plains of Ohio. Thence again away to beneath the hearts of two dead women stirring there, quiet--still--once more outward--perhaps to find each other behind the sun. Close, there: and here at the chop-house table seeking to be close. * * * * * David and Tom, together, were not on Broadway but at Cornelia’s studio. The studio had swung to place under their feet; Broadway lurched on, the footing of others. Cornelia had not mentioned again her wish to meet Tom’s new friend. It was not necessary. The relation between them was too intimate for that. Tom knew when she was thinking of this: Cornelia knew when Tom had understood her. “Well, how was the dinner, brother?” “Are you busy next Sunday afternoon?” “No.” “I told Markand you were anxious to meet him. He is in a state of perturbation I hope won’t interfere with his royal job of clerking.” “Oh, I am glad. But--how was the dinner?” “You are the first artist he will have met. I have told him about us. Cornelia, you must wear something brighter than that Russian thing. Will you? The sandals will do. Stockings under them, however. A little more air in the meshes of your hair. Yes? Why not that green silk blouse with the orange smocking. I want him to see you’re an artist in some outward visible sign.” “And the work----?” Cornelia looked at her clays. “I am afraid he is not quite up to these.” “Oh, nonsense, Tom!” His sister turned on her couch, her favorite seat. She tucked a foot beneath her and laughed. “To hear you talk, one would think the boy was dull--or that my art was inscrutably profound.” “He’s not dull. I was amazed last night....” “At last, the dinner!”