His work had always been engrossing to Vance—something he was driven to by an irresistible force. But hitherto it had been laborious, thankless, full of pitfalls and perplexities, as much a weariness as a joy, and always undertaken tentatively, hazardously, with a dread lest the rich fields through which it beckoned should turn into a waterless desert. Now he felt at ease with his subject, assurance grew in him as he advanced. For beside him was that other consciousness which seemed an extension of his own, in which every inspiration, as it came, instantly rooted and flowered, and every mistake withered and dropped out of sight. He was tasting for the first time the creator's supreme joy, the reflection of his creation in a responsive intelligence; and young as he was, and used to snatching what came to him as recklessly as a boy breaking the buds from a fruit tree, he was yet deeply aware of the peculiar quality of this experience.

"That about the handkerchief always in her hand—that's the kind of thing that gives me the pace… ." He leaned back, rumpling his hair and looking straight ahead of him into his dream. He had been reading aloud the afternoon's work, and Halo, as her way was, sat silent, letting the impression of the reading penetrate her.

"You see, from the first day I set foot in this house I got that sense of continuity that we folks have missed out of our lives—out where I live, anyway—and it gave me the idea of a different rhythm, a different time beat: a movement without jerks and breaks, flowing down from ever so far off in the hills, bearing ships to the sea… . I don't say one method's better than another; only I see this is mine … for the subjects I want to do, anyhow… . And so even a handkerchief in a woman's hand counts… ."

She nodded: "Of course."

"And those are the things I never could have found out if you hadn't told me."

"Oh, yes, you would… . You were destined to… ."

"I guess I was destined to you," he rejoined, half laughing.

She echoed the laugh; then she pushed back her chair with a sigh. "It's late—I must be going. But you're all right now; you've got all the material you need, and you know what to do with it. I'm glad to go away feeling certain of that."

Still deep in his dream, he protested: "But you're not going away? It's not late, really; and there are two or three things more … "

She stood up with a gesture of negation. "Oh, you'll have to write me about those, or drop in some day when you come to New York—"

He sat crouched over the table, his chin sunk in his locked hands, and stared up uncomprehendingly. "Write to you? What do you mean? Can't you come back tomorrow?"

"No, nor the next day. Our holiday's over, Vance—didn't you know?"