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homage of the poet and troubadour； and； when they were no longer
near； forgettingfor that also was a part of Adriance's gift。
Three weeks after Everett had sent his cable； when he made
his daily call at the gaily painted ranch house； he found
Katharine laughing like a schoolgirl。 〃Have you ever thought；〃
she said； as he entered the music room； 〃how much these seances
of ours are like Heine's 'Florentine Nights；' except that I don't
give you an opportunity to monopolize the conversation as Heine
did？〃 She held his hand longer than usual； as she greeted him；
and looked searchingly up into his face。 〃You are the kindest
man living； the kindest；〃 she added； softly。
Everett's gray face colored faintly as he drew his hand
away； for he felt that this time she was looking at him and not
at a whimsical caricature of his brother。 〃Why； what have I done
now？〃 he asked； lamely。 〃I can't remember having sent you any
stale candy or champagne since yesterday。〃
She drew a letter with a foreign postmark from between
the leaves of a book and held it out； smiling。 〃You got him to
write it。 Don't say you didn't； for it came direct； you see； and
the last address I gave him was a place in Florida。 This deed
shall be remembered of you when I am with the just in Paradise。
But one thing you did not ask him to do； for you didn't know about
it。 He has sent me his latest work； the new sonata； the most
ambitious thing he has ever done； and you are to play it for me
directly； though it looks horribly intricate。 But first for the
letter； I think you would better read it aloud to me。〃
Everett sat down in a low chair facing the window seat in
which she reclined with a barricade of pillows behind her。 He
opened the letter； his lashes half…veiling his kind eyes； and saw
to his satisfaction that it was a long onewonderfully tactful
and tender； even for Adriance； who was tender with his valet and
his stable boy； with his old gondolier and the beggar…women who
prayed to the saints for him。
The letter was from Granada； written in the Alhambra； as he
sat by the fountain of the Patio di Lindaraxa。 The air was
heavy； with the warm fragrance of the South and full of the sound
of splashing； running water； as it had been in a certain old
garden in Florence； long ago。 The sky was one great turquoise；
heated until it glowed。 The wonderful Moorish arches threw
graceful blue shadows all about him。 He had sketched an outline
of them on the margin of his notepaper。 The subtleties of Arabic
decoration had cast an unholy spell over him； and the brutal
exaggerations of Gothic art were a bad dream； easily forgotten。
The Alhambra itself had； from the first； seemed perfectly
familiar to him； and he knew that he must have trod that court；
sleek and brown and obsequious； centuries before Ferdinand rode
into Andalusia。 The letter was full of confidences about his
work； and delicate allusions to their old happy days of study and
comradeship； and of her own work； still so warmly remembered and
appreciatively discussed everywhere he went。
As Everett folded the letter he felt that Adriance had
divined the thing needed and had risen to it in his own wonderful
way。 The letter was consistently egotistical and seemed to him
even a trifle patronizing； yet it was just what she had
wanted。 A strong realization of his brother's charm and intensity
and power came over him； he felt the breath of that whirlwind of
flame in which Adriance passed； consuming all in his path； and
himself even more resolutely than he consumed others。 Then he
looked down at this white； burnt…out brand that lay before him。
〃Like him； isn't it？〃 she said； quietly。
〃I think I can scarcely answer his letter； but when you see
him next you can do that for me。 I want you to tell him many
things for me； yet they can all be summed up in this： I want him
to grow wholly into his best and greatest self； even at the cost
of the dear boyishness that is half his charm to you and me。 Do
you understand me？〃
〃I know perfectly well what you mean；〃 answered Everett；
thoughtfully。 〃I have often felt so about him myself。 And yet
it's difficult to prescribe for those fellows； so little makes；
so little mars。〃
Katharine raised herself upon her elbow； and her face
flushed with feverish earnestness。 〃Ah； but it is the waste of
himself that I mean； his lashing himself out on stupid and
uncomprehending people until they take him at their own estimate。
He can kindle marble； strike fire from putty； but is it worth
what it costs him？〃
〃Come； come；〃 expostulated Everett； alarmed at her excitement。
〃Where is the new sonata？ Let him speak for himself。〃
He sat down at the piano and began playing the first
movement； which was indeed the voice of Adriance； his proper
speech。 The sonata was the most ambitious work he had done up to
that time and marked the transition from his purely lyric vein to
a deeper and nobler style。 Everett played intelligently and with
that sympathetic comprehension which seems peculiar to a certain
lovable class of men who never accomplish anything in particular。
When he had finished he turned to Katharine。
〃How he has grown！〃 she cried。 〃What the three last years have
done for him！ He used to write only the tragedies of passion； but
this is the tragedy of the soul； the shadow coexistent with the
soul。 This is the tragedy of effort and failure； the thing Keats
called hell。 This is my tragedy； as I lie here spent by the
racecourse； listening to the feet of the runners as they pass me。
Ah； God！ The swift feet of the runners！〃
She turned her face away and covered it with her straining
hands。 Everett crossed over to her quickly and knelt beside her。
In all the days he had known her she had never before； beyond an
occasional ironical jest； given voice to the bitterness of her
own defeat。 Her courage had become a point of pride with him；
and to see it going sickened him。
〃Don't do it；〃 he gasped。 〃I can't stand it； I really
can't； I feel it too much。 We mustn't speak of that； it's too
tragic and too vast。〃
When she turned her face back to him there was a ghost of the old；
brave； cynical smile on it； more bitter than the tears she could
not shed。 〃No； I won't be so ungenerous； I will save that for the
watches of the night when I have no better company。 Now you may
mix me another drink of some sort。 Formerly； when it was not
if I should