“She’s at the Wolcott--if you care to call. I guess she’s rather lonely, as all her old pals are shying off. You see, her father’s a deadly dangerous sort--liable to do up anybody who sided with her.” Roger, his gaze upon a far, unseen country, was pale and somber. “I do hope you’ll look in on her, Wade,” said Peter. “She’d appreciate it.” Wade’s eyes slowly turned with his returning thoughts until they centered upon the eyes of young Vanderkief. Suddenly Roger’s face was illuminated by that splendid smile of his. He grasped Peter by the hand. “I’m glad to know you,” said he. “And--I beg your pardon--for things I’ve thought about you.” “Oh, that’s all right,” cried Peter. “I’m not a dog in the manger, you know. And I tell you she’s got a stiff stretch ahead of her--downright rough. Of course she’s no fool. Still, it wouldn’t be possible for any woman of her age and her bringing up to realize what she was bumping into, dropping out of her class, sacking her father and trying to scratch along on worse than nothing. When you’ve got tastes a little money’s only an aggravation. Especially for her sort of woman. Won’t you try one of my cigarettes?” “Delighted,” said Roger, taking one. “Well, I must move on,” proceeded Peter. “You don’t mind my butting in?” “Not in the least. It was a fine friendly--decent thing to do.... Would you like to see the picture?” And without giving Peter time to reply, or himself a chance to repent the impulse, he flung aside the drapery over the easel in the middle of the room. He and Peter gazed in silence. It was a glorious vision of morning in the springtime. Upon lake and cataract, upon tree and bush and stone, sparkled the radiance of the birthday of summer. That radiance seemed to come from the figure of a young girl in a canoe, her paddle poised for the stroke--an attitude of exquisite grace, a figure alive in every line of flesh and drapery--a face shedding the soft luster of the bright hopes and dreams and joys that are summed up in the thrilling word, youth. Roger was right in thinking it his best work, his best expression of that intense joy of life which he was ever striving to put upon canvas. Peter gave a long, furtive sigh. “Yes,” he muttered, “she can look like that.” He had seen her look just so once--when she told him she loved the artist and would never change. Queer, how anyone could so love that she got happiness out of giving love, even though it was unreturned. Queer--yet, there it was. Roger, with a sudden gesture, recovered the canvas. Peter stood motionless, staring at where the picture had been--it was still there for him. He roused himself, looked at the painter with frank admiration and respect. “That’s worth while!” said he. “No wonder she----”