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 intervals to be worked into a new prelude symbolic of the soul's aspiration toward the ineffable. Inside Max there burned a sizzling flame that baked his very common clay into lovely porcelain.

Why on earth, Grover wondered, had he behaved in such an idiotic fashion. And having gone to such a blatant haunt, why had he seemed so to enjoy it—for surely he hadn't! He supposed it was the sort of thing you did once, like Coney Island. This first day in Paris, he mournfully reflected, as he crossed the empty Place Clichy, had scarcely proved the "tomorrow" on which life was destined to begin. Though chockablock full of happenings, it had been merely a day comme les autres. Life was still elusive, still over the brow of the hill. After a good sleep he would set forth again—in earnest. Perhaps a schedule would help.

He rattled the chain and rattled it yet again, and yawned, and shivered in the raw air while the concierge kept him waiting at the foot of the stairs.

A schedule allowing for play hours, hours for exploration, and hours for work. He must inquire right away about the chances of working under some painter who would instruct without imposing, and criticize without blighting.

The house was almost sinister in its stillness. A vague sense of heavily somnolent humanity pervaded the stairs and the passages. He had the feeling that if he didn't get quickly to bed, shutters would begin