After a pause Hobart added, “If we are to make American art permanent, we must make American artists hold to the best in themselves. That, Thurley, is my vision! That is what you must do, for you are of the vanguard and you have true genius. Of course there would be a time of temporary disillusionment for art, with every one scrambling about and crying, ‘Help-ho—surely, not _me_!’ After the readjustment, when the craft of artists realize that the public demands clean-breathed lives of them and the surplus of amateurs have been beaten back into the ranks, I see an art so ennobling and enduring that all other glories pale beside it—an art of which America alone is capable—virile, innocent not ignorant, mystical yet practical. In truth America’s sixth race can be the inspiration of the bleeding, older world. That, Thurley, by degrees, must be our part in reconstruction—the winning for America of the violet crown.” Thurley paused in her walking of the floor. “But when one is so young and—when—” She faltered, all the wild-rose self of her returning, like a child reluctant to confess its misdoings. Hobart took her hands in his. “The personal twist to any problem is for the person to solve; no one else can estimate it as well. Only to you have I told my vision, confided my hopes. Do not disappoint me,” he would have added more but the rap at the door recalled him to the eleven o’clock lesson. “Au revoir,” he said gaily, “and if I do not see you until fall—” “You must see me; you cannot leave me at the crossroads.” “You are making yourself walk backwards to them,” he contradicted. “You did not finish about yourself,” she refused to be conscious of his appointment, “the woman you—loved—that part of the story—” “I told you all I have ever allowed myself to remember,” he corrected, the inner illumination vanishing and the rather cynical man of the world in elegant morning dress remaining. CHAPTER XXXI