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 immediate surroundings than anyone in whose company she happened to be. Hellgren had observed the sigh, and his leathery lips had twitched as he anxiously reached forth a hand toward hers. At this she had caught herself together, and smiled for him, whereupon Grover had heaved a sigh of his own, which had probably gone undetected.

Shortly afterwards he had taken leave.

I can't go back, he was now repeating. It isn't fair.

The sight of Olga, the fact of having been in her presence for two hours during which there had been established a friendly, if impersonal intimacy, stilled the restlessness that had possessed him for so many barren weeks, and he resumed his painting with something of the old zest. His skill, thanks to much irksome exercise, had improved sufficiently to justify confidence in his ability to progress. Though the canvas still infuriated him by declining to reflect what he saw, nevertheless his strokes were beginning to look more like the strokes of a real painter. Passing judgment on himself, he concluded that his chief asset was taste, his chief liability lack of "morale"—and that, when you came to think of it, was a pretty serious lack. Faith, hope and charity, he reflected, and the greatest of these is not charity, but faith. For what mountains would mere charity move!

As the season turned definitely into spring, bringing