And even though, to her eyes, he stood as one fallen, there was poise in his presence....  Something about him brought back her dreams, whether or no, with all their ecstasy and dread.  Already she was thinking of him—­as one gone; and yet the studio seemed mystic with his comings and goings and gifts....  It came to her how her lips had quivered under his eyes, as she went forward to say good-by....  It was not three or four days, but “good-by,” indeed.

* * * * *

Though she would have put the black mark of misery upon it, this was one of the greatest of Beth Truba’s days.  She had come into the world with a great faith to bestow—­and some dreadful punishment, it seemed, made her bear it alone.  It had long ached within to be given.  It shamed her that she could not.  With all her intellect, all her world-habit of mind, she believed that Andrew Bedient had fallen greatly—­greatly, because he had shown himself so clean and wise.  She granted to herself nothing but a thrilling admiration for him in his higher moments, but still she was associated with this fall, because she had permitted him to come to her, almost at will.  And she had not been enough for him—­what poison in that thought!

Yet, the unseen Shadowy Sister endeavored to restore her faith again and again, and garland the Wanderer with it....

Every instant of passing daylight harried her with the thought of the work yet to do.  It might prove much—­and to-morrow—­the thought came with heaviness and darkening—­the portrait must go to him.  And the day after—­he would go....  She dreaded to look at the picture now.  Many touches of love, she had put upon it.  Her highest thinking it had called, as his words had done.  It had even stimulated her to an old dream of really great work.  Beth Truba had long put that away.

The rapt look in his eyes; the rapt smile upon his lips when he spoke of his great theme; just to paint that, would be greatness.  Just to put it once upon the canvas, that would be enough.  It would show that she had seen more than man—­deeper than flesh.  One song, one picture, one book, is enough for any artist.  She had always said that....

These thoughts stilled and softened her spirit—­held her moveless in the centre of the room; but again the world returned, with all its play upon her finished intelligence....  He had not found her sufficient to restrain him from this ocean episode; and pride uprose—­a vindictive burning that scorched full-length.

“He is very brave and evolved,” she whispered bitterly, “but the man within him was not to be denied....  Wordling has that....  God, it seems as if there is nothing of that—­in red-haired Beth Truba!...  No, he must run off to the ocean, quite as if he had been a poor, impatient boy, like the Other!”

Her face crimsoned.  The shame and agony of the thought brought her to her knees before the picture she had painted.