Three months of his new life had gone by before Kirk awoke from thestupor which had gripped him as the result of the general upheaval ofhis world. Ever since his return from Colombia he had honestly beenintending to resume his painting, and, attacking it this time in abusiness-like way, to try to mould himself into the semblance of anefficient artist.

　　His mind had been full of fine resolutions. He would engage a goodteacher, some competent artist whom fortune had not treated well andwho would be glad of the job--Washington Square and its neighbourhoodwere full of them--and settle down grimly, working regular hours, torecover lost ground.

　　But the rush of life, as lived on the upper avenue, had swept him away.

　　He had been carried along on the rapids of dinners, parties, dances,theatres, luncheons, and the rest, and his great resolve had gonebobbing away from him on the current.

　　He had recovered it now and climbed painfully ashore, feeling bruisedand exhausted, but determined.

　　* * * * *Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days ofKirk's bachelorhood had been an artist--one might almost say anex-artist--named Robert Dwight Penway. An over-fondness for rye whiskyat the Brevoort cafe had handicapped Robert as an active force in theworld of New York art. As a practical worker he was not greatlyesteemed--least of all by the editors of magazines, who had paidadvance cheques to him for work which, when delivered at all, wasdelivered too late for publication. These, once bitten, were now twiceshy of Mr. Penway. They did not deny his great talents, which were,indeed, indisputable; but they were fixed in their determination not tomake use of them.

　　Fate could have provided no more suitable ally for Kirk. It wasuniversally admitted around Washington Square and--grudgingly--down-townthat in the matter of theory Mr. Penway excelled. He could teach toperfection what he was too erratic to practise.

　　Robert Dwight Penway, run to earth one sultry evening in the Brevoort,welcomed Kirk as a brother, as a rich brother. Even when his firstimpression, that he was to have the run of the house on Fifth Avenueand mix freely with touchable multi-millionaires, had been corrected,his altitude was still brotherly. He parted from Kirk with many solemnpromises to present himself at the studio daily and teach him enoughart to put him clear at the top of the profession. "Way above allthese other dubs," asserted Mr. Penway.

　　Robert Dwight Penway's attitude toward his contemporaries in art bore astriking resemblance to Steve's estimate of his successors in themiddle-weight department of the American prize-ring.

　　Surprisingly to those who knew him, Mr. Penway was as good as his word.

　　Certainly Kirk's terms had been extremely generous; but he had thrownaway many a contract of equal value in his palmy days. Possibly hisactivity was due to his liking for Kirk; or it may have been that theprospect of sitting by with a cigar while somebody else worked, withnothing to do all day except offer criticism, and advice, appealed tohim.

　　At any rate, he appeared at the studio on the following afternoon,completely sober and excessively critical. He examined the canvaseswhich Kirk had hauled from shelves and corners for his inspection. Oneafter another he gazed upon them in an increasingly significantsilence. When the last one was laid aside he delivered judgment.

　　"Golly!" he said.

　　Kirk flushed. It was not that he was not in complete agreement with theverdict. Looking at these paintings, some of which he had in the olddays thought extremely good, he was forced to admit that "Golly" wasthe only possible criticism.

　　He had not seen them for a long time, and absence had enabled him tocorrect first impressions. Moreover, something had happened to him,causing him to detect flaws where he had seen only merits. Life hadsharpened his powers of judgment. He was a grown man looking at thefollies of his youth.

　　"Burn them!" said Mr. Penway, lighting a cigar with the air of onerestoring his tissues after a strenuous ordeal. "Burn the lot. They'reawful. Darned amateur nightmares. They offend the eye. Cast them into aburning fiery furnace."Kirk nodded. The criticism was just. It erred, if at all, on the sideof mildness. Certainly something had happened to him since heperpetrated those daubs. He had developed. He saw things with new eyes.

　　"I guess I had better start right in again at the beginning," he sad.

　　"Earlier than that," amended Mr. Penway.

　　* * * * *So Kirk settled down to a routine of hard work; and, so doing, droveanother blow at the wedge which was separating his life from Ruth's.

　　There were days now when they did not meet at all, and others when theysaw each other for a few short moments in which neither seemed to havemuch to say.

　　Ruth had made a perfunctory protest against the new departure.

　　"Really," she said, "it does seem absurd for you to spend all your timedown at that old studio. It isn't as if you had to. But, of course, ifyou want to----"And she had gone on to speak of other subjects. It was plain to Kirkthat his absence scarcely affected her. She was still in the rapids,and every day carried her farther away from him.

　　It did not hurt him now. A sort of apathy seemed to have fallen on him.

　　The old days became more and more remote. Sometimes he doubted whetheranything remained of her former love for him, and sometimes he wonderedif he still loved her. She was so different that it was almost as ifshe were a stranger. Once they had had everything in common. Now itseemed to him that they had nothing--not even Bill.

　　He did not brood upon it. He gave himself no time for that. He workeddoggedly on under the blasphemous but efficient guidance of Mr. Penway.

　　He was becoming a man with a fixed idea--the idea of making good.

　　He began to make headway. His beginnings were small, but practical. Heno longer sat down when the spirit moved him to dash off vaguemasterpieces which might turn into something quite unexpected on theroad to completion; he snatched at anything definite that presenteditself.

　　Sometimes it was a couple of illustrations to a short story in one ofthe minor magazines, sometimes a picture to go with an eulogy of apatent medicine. Whatever it was, he seized upon it and put into it allthe talent he possessed. And thanks to the indefatigable coaching ofRobert Dwight Penway, a certain merit was beginning to creep into hiswork. His drawing was growing firmer. He no longer shirkeddifficulties.

　　Mr. Penway was good enough to approve of his progress. Being free fromany morbid distaste for himself, he attributed that progress to itsproper source. As he said once in a moment of expansive candour, hecould, given a free hand and something to drink and smoke while doingit, make an artist out of two sticks and a lump of coal.

　　"Why, I've made _you_ turn out things that are like something onearth, my boy," he said proudly. "And that," he added, as he reachedout for the bottle of Bourbon which Kirk had provided for him, "isgoing some."Kirk was far too grateful to resent the slightly unflattering note amore spirited man might have detected in the remark.

　　* * * * *Only once during those days did Kirk allow himself to weaken and admitto himself how wretched he was. He was drawing a picture of Steve atthe time, and Steve had the sympathy which encourages weakness inothers.

　　It was a significant sign of his changed attitude towards hisprofession that he was not drawing Steve as a figure in an allegoricalpicture or as "Apollo" or "The Toiler," but simply as a well-developedyoung man who had had the good sense to support his nether garmentswith Middleton's Undeniable Suspenders. The picture, when completed,would show Steve smirking down at the region of his waist-line andannouncing with pride and satisfaction: "They're Middleton's!" Kirk wasputting all he knew into the work, and his face, as he drew, was darkand gloomy.

　　Steve noted this with concern. He had perceived for some time that Kirkhad changed. He had lost all his old boyish enjoyment of theirsparring-bouts, and he threw the medicine-ball with an absent gloomalmost equal to Bailey's.

　　It had not occurred to Steve to question Kirk about this. If Kirk hadanything on his mind which he wished to impart he would say it.

　　Meanwhile, the friendly thing for him to do was to be quiet and pretendto notice nothing.

　　It seemed to Steve that nothing was going right these days. Here washe, chafing at his inability to open his heart to Mamie. Here was Kirk,obviously in trouble. And--a smaller thing, but of interest, as showinghow universal the present depression was--there was Bailey Bannister,equally obviously much worried over something or other.

　　For Bailey had reinstated Steve in the place he had occupied before oldJohn Bannister had dismissed him, and for some time past Steve hadmarked him down as a man with a secret trouble. He had never been of ariotously cheerful disposition, but it had been possible once to drawhim into conversation at the close of the morning's exercises. Now hehardly spoke. And often, when Steve arrived in the morning, he wasinformed that Mr. Bannister had started for Wall Street early onimportant business.

　　These things troubled Steve. His simple soul abhorred a mystery.

　　But it was the case of Kirk that worried him most, for he half guessedthat the latter's gloom had to do with Ruth; and he worshipped Ruth.

　　Kir............