“It’s splendid, perfectly splendid!” he cried, but Mrs. Blair got him away for the time being. Her father’s business affairs had given her great concern and she seized the moment to attack Wayne in regard to them. But Wayne was not to be disposed of so easily; his eyes followed Jean, and when she laughed at some of Wingfield’s banter he stopped abruptly in his answer to one of Mrs. Blair’s questions and the look in his eyes told the story, and would have told it to a less observing woman than Fanny Blair. She sighed as he rose and moved across the room to where Jean sat turning in her hands her copy of the editor’s contract. It would hurt nothing this once--so Mrs. Blair suffered him to talk to her. “I’ve been away,” he began, “and a great deal seems to be happening; here you are at the point of being famous. I always felt that it would come--that you would make good, and you have rung the bell at the first shot.” “But it wasn’t the first. I had sent portfolios of drawings to a lot of publishers and editors who didn’t care for them at all. And of course, Mr. Richardson was only interested because he happened to be looking for that kind of thing.” “There are other artists doing that sort of work--good ones--of established reputation--and the _Hemisphere_ prefers you. You can’t get away from that.” “Well, it’s nice, anyhow. And now I must do the work; it will keep me very busy, if I finish in time.” “You will do it and it will be a success; there is no doubt of that. And we shall all be proud of you. It’s something to know a genius these days.” This success would, he knew, raise higher the barriers between them, and he was jealous of her art as he had not been of Joe. Her work meant more to her than Joe had meant or could mean. It was preposterous that this woman should bear the burden of an obligation to a man like Joe Denny. Her new gown clothed her in a fresh vesture of youth. She was no longer the obscure, forlorn and shabby art student, but a young woman whose name would go far and whose eyes were bright with the elixir of success--that most potent of cordials. He wondered whether he should see again the gray mist of the sea steal across the lovely violet of her eyes; and upon the thought the soft shadow fell and the sweet gravity that became her so well came into her face. The change seemed to bring her back to him; and he grasped at the fleeting mood eagerly. “I have seen things differently since I saw you last,” he began, and all unconsciously her head bowed as though under the weight of remembrance. “I let go of myself again--it was hideous; you heard of it?” “Yes, I knew. I was sorry.” “But Paddock took me away to the house of some friends of his; they were good to me. I sent you a telegram Christmas--I wonder if you got it?” “Yes; and I was glad you remembered me.”