Yes; no matter how little he saw of her, their amity and concord strengthened. Sometimes she looked at him in a way that quickened his heartbeat. As they went down from the organ his hand touched hers and he thrilled at the fleeting contact. A high privilege, this, to be near her, to be admitted to the sanctuary of her mind and heart. She had her clichés; harmony was a word she used frequently, and colors and musical terms she employed with odd little meanings of her own. In the studio she showed him a plaque of her mother’s head which he knew to be creditable work. His praise of it pleased her. She had none of the amateur’s simpering affectation and false modesty. She said frankly she thought it the best thing she had done. “I know mamma--all her expressions--and that makes a difference. You’ve got to see under the flesh--get the inner light even in clay. I might really get somewhere if I gave up everything else,” she said pensively as they idled about the studio. “Yes; you could go far. Why not?” “Oh, but I’d have to give up too much. I like life--being among people; and I have my father and mother. I think I’ll go on just as I am. If I got too serious about it I might be less good than now, when I merely play at it....” In their new familiarity he made bold to lift the coverings of some of her work that she thought unworthy of display. She became gay over some of her failures, as she called them. She didn’t throw them away because they kept her humble. On a table in a corner of the room stood a bust covered with a cloth to which they came last. “Another _magnum opus_?” he asked carelessly. She lifted the cloth and stood away from it. “Mr. Mills gave me some sittings. But this is my greatest fizzle of all; I simply couldn’t get him!” The features of Franklin Mills had been reproduced in the clay with mechanical fidelity; but unquestionably something was lacking. Bruce studied it seriously, puzzled by its deficiencies. “Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “It’s curious that a thing can come so close and fail.” “It’s a true thing,” remarked Bruce, “as far as it goes. But you’re right; there’s something that isn’t there. If you don’t mind, it’s dead--there’s--there’s no life in it.” Millicent touched the clay here and there, suggesting points where the difficulty might lie. She was so intent that she failed to see the changing expression on Bruce’s face. He had ceased to think of the clay image. Mills himself had been in the studio, probably many times. The thought of this stirred the jealousy in Bruce’s heart--Millicent and Mills! Every kind and generous thought he had ever entertained for the man was obliterated by this evidence that for many hours he had been there with Millicent. But she, understanding nothing of this, was startled when he flung round at her. “I think I can tell you what’s the matter,” he said in a tone harsh and strained. “The fault’s not yours!” “No?” she questioned wonderingly.