“I am not going into that.  I only claim that more people know the condition than dare to confess it.  It is after all only symbolic of the duality of the soul—­or call it what you like.  It is the embodiment of a truth which no one thinks of denying—­that the spirit has its secrets.  Imagination plays a great part in most of our lives—­it is the glory that gilds our facts—­it is the brilliant barrier which separates us from the beasts, and the only real thing that divides us into classes, though, of course, it does not run through the world like straight lines of latitude and longitude, but like the lines of mean temperature.”

“The truth is,” said the Lawyer, “if the Principal Girl had been obliged to struggle for her living, the fact that her imagination did not run at any point into her world of realities would not have been dangerous.”

“Naturally not,” said the Doctor, “for she would have been a great novelist, or a poor one, and all would have been well, or not, according to circumstances.”

“All the same,” persisted the Critic, “I think it a horrid story and—­”

“I think,” interrupted the Doctor, “that you have a vicious mind, and—­” Here the Doctor cast a quick look in the direction of the Youngster, who was stretched out in a steamer chair and had not said a word.

“All right,” said the Trained Nurse, “he is fast asleep.”  And so he was.

“Just as well,” said the Doctor, “though it does not speak so well for the story as it might.”

“Well,” laughed the Journalist, “you have had a double success, Doctor.  You have been spontaneously applauded by the man of law, and sent the man of the air to faire dodo.  I reckon you get the laurels.”

“Don’t you be in such a hurry to award the palm,” protested the Sculptor.  “There are some of us who have not spoken yet.  I am going to put some brilliant touches on mine before I give my star performance.”

“What’s that about stars?” yawned the Youngster, waking up slowly.

“Nothing except that you have given a very distinguished and unexpected star performance as a sleeper,” said the Doctor.

“I say!” he exclaimed, sitting up.  “By Jove, is the story of the Principal Girl all told?  That’s a shame.  What became of her?”

“You’ll never know now,” said the Doctor.

“Besides,” said the Critic, “you would not understand.  You are too young.”

“Well, I like your cheek.”

“After all,” said the Journalist, “it is only another phase of the Dear Little Josephine, and I still think that is the banner story.”

“Me, too,” said the Doctor, as we went into the house.

And I thought to myself, “I can tell a third phase—­the tragic—­when my turn comes,” and I was the only one who knew that my story would come last.

V

THE SCULPTOR’S STORY

UNTO THIS END