She had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he had
begun to miss her, after his own fashion--that is, he thought of her
when not preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionship when
unoccupied.

And one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-books, and
scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which he
could never remember, wrote it down on another slip of paper,
pocketed it, and went out to his dinner.

But as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matters
professional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, which
gradually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire to
see her at that particular time.

Sometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort to
communicate with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centering
concentration which included himself and his career, as well as his
work, seemed to obliterate even any memory of her existence.

Now and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a dull book,
or duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart and
brain a faint pain became apparent--if it could still be called
pain, this vague ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead
years--and at such moments he thought of Graylock, and of another;
and the partly paralyzed emotion, which memory of these two evoked,
stirred him finally to think of Cecile.

It was at such times that he always determined to seek her the next
day and continue with her what had been begun--an intimacy which
depended upon his own will; a destiny for her which instinct
whispered was within his own control. But the next day found him at
work; models of various types, ages, and degrees of stupidity came,
posed, were paid, and departed; his studies for the groups in
collaboration with Guilder and Quair were approaching the intensely
interesting period--that stage of completion where composition has
been determined upon and the excitement of developing the
construction and the technical charm of modeling begins.