“Then she turned to art?”

“No, my friend!  No!  Art, like nature, exacts—­and she had already given!  She was too frightened—­too hurt to meddle with great things.  She dried her tears before they had time to fall; she hardened her heart, and went back to the world that gives nothing and exacts nothing.”

“Poor child!” said Blake.  “Poor child!”

“She went back to the world—­and the world poured oil on her wounds, and soothed her fears and taught her its smiling, shallow ways.”

“Poor child!”

The reiterated word had a curious effect upon the boy; his fierceness dropped from him; he turned again to the railing and, looking upward, seemed to drench himself in the coolness of the starlight.

“For years she lived her shallow life.  She took lightly the light gifts the world offered; among those gifts was love—­”

“Stop!” cried Blake, involuntarily.  “You are tarnishing the picture!”

“I am only painting in crude colors!  Much love was offered lightly to Maxine, and she took it—­lightly; then one day her friend the world brought for her consideration a suitor more powerful, more distinguished, even less exigent than the rest—­”

“Stop!  Stop!” cried Blake, again.  “I can’t see her as this hard woman.  She frightens me!”

“She has sometimes frightened me,” said Max, enigmatically, “but that is outside the picture.  She took, as I tell you, with both hands, smiling very wisely to herself, holding her head very high.  But when the head is held too high, the feet sometimes fall into a trap.  It came suddenly—­the trapping of my sister Maxine.”

“Yes!  Yes!  Tell me!”

“I am telling you, my friend!  The date of Maxine’s marriage was fixed, and she moved through her world content.  One night a great court function was held; she was present, her fiance was present, the atmosphere was all congratulation—­like honey and wine.  When it was over, the fiance begged the privilege of escorting her to her home, and they drove together through the cold Russian night.  They spoke little; Maxine’s thoughts skimmed lightly over the future, her hands lay lightly in her fiance’s.  All was unemotional—­all was smooth and undisturbed—­until they reached the street where her house stood; then, with the swiftness that belongs to mad moments, the being beside her showed himself.  Quick as a flash of lightning, the dignified, distinguished, unexacting lover was effaced, and in his place was a man—­an animal—­a passionate egoist!  He caught her in his arms, and his arms were like iron bands; his lips pressed hers, and they were like a flame.  In a flash, the fabric of her illusions was scattered.  She saw the truth.  The world had cheated her, this second marriage was to be as the first.  Terror seized my sister Maxine—­terror of life, terror of herself.  Her false calm broke up, as the ice breaks under the hand of spring—­wells of fear gushed in her heart.  She dismissed her lover at the gateway of her house; he guessed nothing—­he knew nothing but that her hands were shaking and that her face was white, but when he was gone she rushed to her own room, cast off all her jewels, wrapped herself in a fur cloak and commanded her sledge and her swiftest horses.”