Between Friends

She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had

begun to miss her, after his own fashion--that is, he thought of her

when not preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when

unoccupied.

And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and

scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he

could never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper,

pocketed it, and went out to his dinner.

But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters

professional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which

gradually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to

see her at that particular time.

Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to

communicate with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering

concentration which included himself and his career, as well as his

work, seemed to obliterate even any memory of her existence.

Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book,

or duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and

brain a faint pain became apparent--if it could still be called

pain, this vague ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead

years--and at such moments he thought of Graylock, and of another;

and the partly paralyzed emotion, which memory of these two evoked,

stirred him finally to think of Cecile.

It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next

day and continue with her what had been begun--an intimacy which

depended upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct

whispered was within his own control. But the next day found him at

work; models of various types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came,

posed, were paid, and departed; his studies for the groups in

collaboration with Guilder and Quair were approaching the intensely

interesting period--that stage of completion where composition has

been determined upon and the excitement of developing the

construction and the technical charm of modeling begins.

And evening always found him physically tired and mentally

satisfied--or perturbed--to the exclusion of such minor interests as

life is made of--dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and a

beloved profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room

for these or thought of these.

He ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteristic

of creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples,

and grayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid

New York summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gaunt,

silent, darkly absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air

until some half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of a

headache, set him in reluctant motion.