walked she would arrive at the right time. She was no longer curious as to what Terry would have to say. Gloria and George did not interest her. She was arrived at branching roads and she must choose. She realized that. Not that she could not keep on with her studies, regardless of whether she had talent or not. She could, for she was responsible to no one. No one counted on her to make good, nor was there any one to warn her against mistakes. She only knew that she did not want to devote her life to something for which she was not intended. She did not want to fail, even less did she want to be a mediocre success. She must live on Olympus or in the valley. It occurred to her that her very thoughts were proof of her unworthiness. If she were really a great artist she would not be thinking of either fame or failure, but only of her work. She was walking rapidly so that she arrived at Mori’s before five. She glanced at the watch on her wrist before entering and he was beside her, coming from the opposite direction. “On time,” he said with mock surprise. “No, I am ahead of time. I just came from the League.” They went in together—a big room crowded with innumerable tiny tables and many people, yet when she found herself seated opposite him, pouring tea, they seemed to be quite alone together. Perhaps it was because the tables were so tiny, perhaps because of the small, soft, rose-shaded light on each one, that she seemed to be nearer him than ever before, both physically and spiritually. “You were looking quite downcast when we met; I hope you aren’t worrying too much about George,” he said. His tone was friendly, intimate, comforting, inviting confidence. “No, it’s not that. Much more selfish. I was thinking of my own troubles.” “I didn’t know you had any.” “Yes, it’s art. You know I have thought for years—three years to be exact—that I would one day be a great painter and today I discovered that I have no talent.” “You can’t know that; you’re discouraged over some little failure. I don’t know anything about art, but you’ve only been studying a few years and that’s not time enough to tell.” “Yes, it is—I’ve compared my work with that of other students and I’ve been afraid for some time. Today I asked Burroughs, one of the instructors, and now I know.” “But that’s only one man’s opinion. Just what did he say?—I know the pedagogue-al formula, three words of praise and one of censure to keep you from being too happy, or three words of adverse criticism and one of praise to keep you from being too discouraged. Wasn’t it like that?” “No; he just said very frankly that he would not say that I had no future at all, but he did say that if I had any my work at school had never given any indication of it. He said my portraits looked like cartoons, and then he remembered those awful sketches in the _Express_—” She stopped embarrassed. “You never will live that down, will you?” said Terry, smiling.