It was the next morning—­and she was painting.  Again the knocker and his cheery greeting.  Beth sat down to work—­and then thoughts of the two men came to her.  She should not have tried to paint, with Framtree in the room....  Thoughts arose, until she could not have borne another.  The colors of her canvas flicked out, leaving a sort of welted gray of flesh, from which life is beaten.  She rubbed her eyes.

“Jim,” she said at last, “why did you come back?”

He came forward, and stood over her.  “I wanted to see if there was any change, Beth,—­any chance.”

She regarded him, noted how effective is humility with such magnificent proportions of strength.

“There isn’t, Jim,” she answered.  “At least, not the change you look for.  I’m sorry if you really wanted it, but I think in time you’ll be glad——­”

“Never, Beth.”

She smiled.

Framtree hesitated, as if there were something further he would like to say.  He refrained, however....  Beth gave her hand, which he kissed for old love’s sake.

* * * * *

On the following Sunday morning, Adith Mallory’s Equatorian news-feature appeared.  The entire truth and all the names were not needed to make this as entertaining a Sunday newspaper story as ever drew forth her fanciful and flowing style.  It was Equatoria that caught and held Beth’s eye, and she saw Andrew Bedient in large movement behind the tale.  The feature was dated in Coral City ten days before.  Beth was so interested that she wanted to meet the correspondent, and wondered if Miss Mallory had returned to New York.  She dropped a card with her telephone number, and the next morning Miss Mallory ’phoned.  Her voice became bright with animation upon learning that Beth was upon the wire.

“There’s no one in New York whom I’d rather talk with this moment, Miss Truba.”

“And why?”

“That portrait at the Smilax Club—­I saw it yesterday.  I’m writing about it....  The face I know—­and you have done it tremendously!  I can’t tell you how it affected me.  Don’t bother to come down here.  Let me go to you.”

“I shall be glad to see you, Miss Mallory,—­this afternoon?”

“Yes, and thank you.”

The call had brightened Beth’s mood somewhat.  A bundle of letters had been dropped through her door as she talked.  Beth saw the quantity of them and remembered it was Monday’s first mail.  She busied about the studio for a moment....  Letters, she thought,—­these were all she had to represent her great investments of faith.  Letters—­the sum of her longings and vivid expectations.  No matter what she wanted or deserved—­a voice, a touch or a presence—­it had all come to this, the crackle of letter paper.  What a strange thing to realize!  A fold of paper instead of a hand—­a special delivery instead of a step upon the stair—­a telegram instead of a kiss!...