...  She would not see him again.  He could not come back here to-morrow nor afterward.  He must go away now...  She thought of her wail to the Grey One that he would not go to the ocean with Wordling...  It meant nothing to him; she could not punish him by keeping him away...  But the picture—­that final inner lustre.  It had come to her this morning—­what havoc in the memory—­and she had seen it that day in the great gallery before his Race Mother, but had been unable quite to hold it in mind until the working light of the following day...  She must not add to her own punishment, after all her care and labor, by failing in the last touch.  And yet he must not come again...

“The picture, did you say?”

He repeated his question.

“Why, the picture is practically done,” she said.  “I’ll sign and deliver it to-morrow.  I think it will get to you to-morrow.  The long, ridiculously long, preliminary work gave me the modelling, as well as I could have it....  This weather makes one think of the ocean or the mountains——­”

She had forgotten this gray day of winds.  Her sentence, and the design of it, had been founded upon the recent run of superb spring days.

“There’s a little thing that needs doing by the ocean—­that’s why I go.”  His words seemed to come from a distance.

“It would not do for you to look at the picture here.  You’d feel expected to say something pretty—­or most would.  I want it out of its work-light, then you can judge and send it back if it’s bad.  I’ll try to have it at the Club to-morrow....  You did not know this was the final sitting, did you?”

She was talking feverishly, in fear of his questions.  She knew it must sound strange and unreasonable to his mind.

“No,” he said gently.  “You always surprise me.  And the ride—­Saturday?”

“Yes, the ride....  We must start——­”

“Early?”

“Yes.  We’ll meet—­at the Thirty-fourth Street boat—­at seven.”

“I thank you.  And good-by.”

There was something amazing to her in his capacity not to question.  In her weakness she was grateful almost to tears.  She would not show him her hurt, but crossed the room hastily, and extended her hand with a brave smile....  Listening, she heard him descend the stairs....  Then from the front window, she saw him reach the street, turn to the Avenue and mingle with men.

It was not like yesterday in the little room.  That agony had worn her too much for another such crisis....  The thought fascinated, that there must be some hidden meaning to the queer promise she had been impelled to make—­to ride with him Saturday....  The parting, his instant comprehension of some mood of hers, in which words had no place; his sad smile, and the look of gratitude when she came forward; his seeming content with all her decisions; his inability to question or ask favors—­all these retained a remarkable hold upon her imagination.