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Adriance； and his shoulders were broad and heavy； while those of
his brother were slender and rather girlish。 His face was of the
same oval mold； but it was gray and darkened about the mouth by
continual shaving。 His eyes were of the same inconstant April
color； but they were reflective and rather dull； while Adriance's
were always points of highlight； and always meaning another thing
than the thing they meant yesterday。 But it was hard to see why
this earnest man should so continually suggest that lyric；
youthful face that was as gay as his was grave。 For Adriance；
though he was ten years the elder； and though his hair was
streaked with silver； had the face of a boy of twenty； so mobile
that it told his thoughts before he could put them into words。
A contralto； famous for the extravagance of her vocal
methods and of her affections； had once said to him that the
shepherd boys who sang in the Vale of Tempe must certainly have
looked like young Hilgarde； and the comparison had been
appropriated by a hundred shyer women who preferred to quote。
As Everett sat smoking on the veranda of the InterOcean
House that night； he was a victim to random recollections。 His
infatuation for Katharine Gaylord； visionary as it was； had been
the most serious of his boyish love affairs； and had long
disturbed his bachelor dreams。 He was painfully timid in
everything relating to the emotions； and his hurt had withdrawn
him from the society of women。 The fact that it was all so done
and dead and far behind him； and that the woman had lived her
life out since then； gave him an oppressive sense of age and
loss。 He bethought himself of something he had read about
〃sitting by the hearth and remembering the faces of women without
desire；〃 and felt himself an octogenarian。
He remembered how bitter and morose he had grown during his
stay at his brother's studio when Katharine Gaylord was working
there； and how he had wounded Adriance on the night of his last
concert in New York。 He had sat there in the box while his
brother and Katharine were called back again and again after the
last number； watching the roses go up over the footlights until
they were stacked half as high as the piano； brooding； in his
sullen boy's heart； upon the pride those two felt in each other's
workspurring each other to their best and beautifully
contending in song。 The footlights had seemed a hard； glittering
line drawn sharply between their life and his； a circle of flame
set about those splendid children of genius。 He walked back to
his hotel alone and sat in his window staring out on Madison
Square until long after midnight； resolving to beat no more at
doors that he could never enter and realizing more keenly than
ever before how far this glorious world of beautiful creations
lay from the paths of men like himself。 He told himself that he
had in common with this woman only the baser uses of life。
Everett's week in Cheyenne stretched to three； and he saw no
prospect of release except through the thing he dreaded。 The
bright； windy days of the Wyoming autumn passed swiftly。 Letters
and telegrams came urging him to hasten his trip to the coast；
but he resolutely postponed his business engagements。 The
mornings he spent on one of Charley Gaylord's ponies； or fishing
in the mountains； and in the evenings he sat in his room writing
letters or reading。 In the afternoon he was usually at his post
of duty。 Destiny； he reflected； seems to have very positive
notions about the sort of parts we are fitted to play。 The scene
changes and the compensation varies； but in the end we usually
find that we have played the same class of business from first to
last。 Everett had been a stopgap all his life。 He remembered
going through a looking glass labyrinth when he was a boy and
trying gallery after gallery； only at every turn to bump his nose
against his own facewhich； indeed； was not his own； but his
brother's。 No matter what his mission； east or west； by land or
sea； he was sure to find himself employed in his brother's
business； one of the tributary lives which helped to swell the
shining current of Adriance Hilgarde's。 It was not the first
time that his duty had been to comfort； as best he could； one of
the broken things his brother's imperious speed had cast aside
and forgotten。 He made no attempt to analyze the situation or to
state it in exact terms； but he felt Katharine Gaylord's need for
him； and he accepted it as a commission from his brother to help
this woman to die。 Day by day he felt her demands on him grow
more imperious； her need for him grow more acute and positive；
and day by day he felt that in his peculiar relation to her his
own individuality played a smaller and smaller part。 His power
to minister to her comfort； he saw； lay solely in his link with
his brother's life。 He understood all that his physical
resemblance meant to her。 He knew that she sat by him always
watching for some common trick of gesture； some familiar play of
expression； some illusion of light and shadow； in which he should
seem wholly Adriance。 He knew that she lived upon this and that
her disease fed upon it； that it sent shudders of remembrance
through her and that in the exhaustion which followed this
turmoil of her dying senses； she slept deep and sweet and
dreamed of youth and art and days in a certain old Florentine
garden； and not of bitterness and death。
The question which most perplexed him was； 〃How much shall I
know？ How much does she wish me to know？〃 A few days after his
first meeting with Katharine Gaylord； he had cabled his brother
to write her。 He had merely said that she was mortally ill； he
could depend on Adriance to say the right thingthat was a part
of his gift。 Adriance always said not only the right thing； but
the opportune； graceful； exquisite thing。 His phrases took the
color of the moment and the then…present condition； so that they
never savored of perfunctory compliment or frequent usage。 He
always caught the lyric essence of the moment； the poetic
suggestion of every situation。 Moreover； he usually did the
right thing； the opportune； graceful； exquisite thingexcept；
when he did very cruel thingsbent upon making people happy
when their existence touched his； just as he insisted that his
material environment should be beautiful； lavishing upon those
near him all the warmth and radiance of his rich nature； all the
homage of the poet and troubadour； and； when they were no longer
near； forgettingf