A year ago had been a wedding-day--this morning the youth had whistled out of the house wholly forgetful of it. A year ago this room had been a garden of flowers scattered from a wedding-bouquet--this night the room was wholly bare of flowers. A year ago had been wondrous tendernesses, and watchful care over her that had been a very burden of sweet attentions--eyes that hungered, ears that listened to her every whisper, hands that burnt into her white flesh, caresses that shamed her with delight--to-day was criticism, excusings of neglect, carelessnesses. To-morrow, perchance, Youth would cease even to excuse itself. A year ago had seen youth and maid climb lightheartedly to the harsh garret of the world’s toil, full of high hopes and noble purpose, stepping it gleefully, clear-eyed, will and heart inflamed with the Certainties. To-day the very Certainties of yesterday were crumbling into ashen doubts. She ate her heart out, silently, with womanhood’s uncomplaining dignity; yet was her soul riven by this fool’s folly--his littlest harshnesses turning to bitterness in these long night-watches. His forgetfulnesses, his ignorings, his egotisms, his irresolutions--how they all took shape and grew in bogey ugliness, indeed to something of their true scarecrow ugliness, as she brooded upon them, raising the nauseating dead out of the ashes of her experience! Nay, so fatuous his conceit, he must needs even rob her of the dignity of her work, sneer at the child of her imagination, leave her nothing. But he had wasted bad manners. Genius is serene in the confidence of its mighty Patiences. Time waits upon the great Wills. Then she would make excuses for him. Of a truth, he had had a little vogue--stood well with his fellows---- But he wrecked his own cause. In a passing mood of conceit he had strutted it in the mock-modest manner, tapping his own chest, half ashamed to drag in so modest a fellow. But look at him--even him! and the like; and forthwith averred that he “knocked off” more in an hour sometimes than she in a month--the “knocking off” inferring fertility and facility of genius. The which, whatever it lacked in the courtesies, held at least some virtue of truth. But Truth may walk abroad too naked. Ah, Betty--and if thou, looking out of thy window, couldst but see with thy clear eyes across the lamp-lit city this Noll of thine! CHAPTER LXIII _Wherein the Ceiling of the Tavern that is called_ The Scarlet Jackass _is stained with Blood_ Noll was at a gathering of little men--at a students’ tavern on the heights of Montmartre. The praises of the mediocrities flushed him. His eyes were bright; he had glittered. Ah, Noll; and there is one who watches for thee, sitting alone, her handsome head bowed by the midnight lamp to give thee welcome. She is thy one selfless friend--with brain whose verdict is worth all the splutterings of these bedraggled talents that sit about thy self-sufficient elbows!...