" "You mustn't think of that, Mrs. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Stanley, with an imperious gesture, “to come in here. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. Then the foremost bowed and passed on.
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