The light in the studio was growing dim. Goetze had risen to his feet and was walking back and forth in front of the portraits. When he spoke he seemed to have forgotten them, except as the representation of an abstract principle; or, perhaps, he was thinking of his own nature, and what his friend had said of it.

"Good and bad are relative terms only," he said, as one pronouncing a text. Every man fulfills his purpose. I can put a stroke of paint on my canvas, and you will call it white. I put another beside it, and by contrast the first appears gray. Still another, and the second has become gray, and the first still darker. And so on, until I have reached the purest white we know. It is the same with humanity. Men are only dark or light as they are contrasted with others; nor can they avoid the place they occupy on God's canvas any more than my colors can choose their places on mine. The world is a great picture. God is the greatest of all artists. His is the master hand – the unerring touch that lays on the lights, the half-tones and the shadows. Each fulfills its purpose. Without the shadows there would be no lights.

"What is true of masses is likewise true of individuals," he continued, after a moment's pause. "In a landscape, every blade of grass, every pebble, has its light and its dark side. If you see only the light side of an object, it is only because the shadow is turned from you. It is so with men; one side is sun, the other shadow. Sometimes the light, only, is presented to view, but the darker side is none the less there because unseen. Nature is never unbalanced. Whatever of brightness there is toward the sun there must be an equal amount of shadow opposing, with all the intergradations between. If the light is dim the shadow is soft; if the light is brilliant the shadow is black. Some of us are turned white side to the world, some the reverse; some show the white and the black alternately."

The man in the chair settled himself comfortably to listen. He liked nothing better than to see the artist in his present mood, offering a word now and then that was likely to draw out his peculiar ideas.

"You believe in fate, then, and the absence of moral freedom," he said reflectively.

"I believe nothing. Belief is not the word. What is, is right. To assert otherwise is an insult to the Supreme. He is all powerful, hence – wrong cannot exist."

"I should be glad to hear your argument in support of that position."

"Argument! It is a self-evident truth! Argument is not necessary! Argument is never necessary! If an assertion is not true no amount of discussion will make it so, while the truth requires no support."

The other had lighted a pipe, and was smoking lazily.

"Well," he said, as the artist paused; "at least those who have crossed over have solved the mystery."

"Oh, they have! And how do you know that anyone has crossed over? You do not believe in the mortality nor the slumber of the soul; no more do I; but time exists only with life. A man dies and in the same instant opens his eyes upon eternity, and yet a million of years may have been swept away in that instant. As a tired child you have fallen asleep. A moment later you have been called by your mother to breakfast. And yet, in that moment of dreamless sleep, the long winter night had passed. Adam, the first man, closing his eyes in death; you and I, who will do the same ten, twenty, forty years hence, and the generations who will follow us for a million years, perhaps, will waken to eternity, if there be a waking, in one and the same instant of time, without a knowledge of the intervening years. There were no years. Eternity has no beginning, no end, no measurement."

He paused a moment, then suddenly burst out again.

"Nothing in life is real – it is all a dream. You think your being is reality and that you hear my voice speaking. I tell you it is but fancy. We are the figures – the mimes in some vast hypnotic exhibition – the shadows in some gigantic spirit's disordered dream. Hypnotism," he continued, pursuing a line of thought which his impulsive words had suggested, "has, in fact, proven that no one can distinguish the real from the unreal. You remember, when we went to see Flint, the great hypnotist, how his subjects passed from one condition to another and took on any personality at the operator's will; capering and grimacing about the stage with all the characteristics and even the facial expression of monkeys, one minute, and simpering as silly school-girls the next; and to them it was all real – as real as this room, these bodies, these pictures are to us. I read some lines once that seemed to express the idea:

"I sometimes think life but a dream
Of some great soul in some great sphere,
And what appear as truths but seem,
And what seem truths do but appear."

He repeated these words with slow earnestness, adding solemnly, "Who knows? Who knows?"

The man who sat listening drew a long breath. He was a rich idler with a good deal of worldly wisdom, but he loved and admired his erratic friend. He felt that much of what he said was sophistry, wholly or in part; but there was a charm about the earnest manner, the musical voice, and the flashing brevity of statement, more pleasing to his ear than sounder logic from a surer reasoner.

It was nearly dark now in the studio. The artist halted in his march, and offered to light the gas.

"Not for the world, Julian; I am far too happy in the dark. I was just thinking what a glorious agitator you would make; you would carry all before you. I wonder you have never dabbled in politics or socialism. Now I think of it, I have never heard you mention these things. I suppose you belong to one or the other of the great parties, however."

"Politics? Party? Good heavens, no! I never meddle with such things; it is one step lower than I have ever gone."

"But a man must stand somewhere. He that stands nowhere stands upon nothing."

The artist paused before the open window and stood looking out upon the dusk of the little scented garden. A faint reflected glimmer from some far-away lamp dimly illuminated one side of his face, silhouetting his striking profile sharply against a ground of blackness.

"If you mean," he began, slowly, "that I should have some opinions, then I will tell you what they are.

"I believe neither in tariff nor trade. Currency nor coin. Traffic nor toil. I believe in nothing– but the absolute freedom of every living being. Freedom! – freedom from the curse of creeds, the blight of bigotry, and the leprosy of the law. Freedom to go and to come, to live and to die. Life without loathing, love without bondage. To live in some sunlit valley, where the bud is ever bursting into flower, the flower fading to fruit, and the fruit ripening to sustenance. The untouched bosom of Nature would yield enough for her children had not the curse of greed been implanted in their bosoms."

Goetze had turned away from the window and was again striding up and down the floor in the dark.

"A beautiful poem, Julian," said the other, dreamily; "but a sort of delightful barbarism, I'm afraid."

"Barbarism? No! A higher, purer intellectuality than we have ever yet known – a civilization that knows not the curse of avarice nor the miseries of crime – the weariness of wealth nor the pangs of poverty. The garden of Eden is still about us, but we have torn up the flowers, and desecrated it with the lust of gain. Man was never driven out of that garden. Greed was planted in his heart and he destroyed it."

"Come," he continued, suddenly changing the subject, "I have made you tired and hungry; let us go out, somewhere, to supper."

"Thanks," said the other, laughing; "I supposed a man in your condition had no need of bodily sustenance. You are comfortably situated here, Julian," he added, as they passed out into the street.

"Yes, it is quiet here – no bother with servants nor landladies. Once a week my washerwoman comes and stays to put my establishment in order; the rest of the time I am disturbed only by my sitters."

"You forget me."

"Yes, Harry," said the artist, taking his arm affectionately; "and by you, of course."

IV

When Julian Goetze arose the next morning he felt strong within himself to withstand and conquer those fierce impulses of his savage heritage that had answered to the blandishments of Evelin March. And yet he was greatly troubled. He felt that in a large measure he had been to blame. He blushed hotly as he recalled some of the things he had said to this woman whom Harry had called a siren.

"Men are all scoundrels," he said, savagely; "I wonder if there are really any who are not so at heart."

He rapidly formulated his plan of action, and even the sentences with which he was to meet and conquer this modern Circe.

"I will keep Eva's face before me," he thought, "and I will treat her coldly. She is high-spirited and keen; she will notice the change at once and resent it. She is too proud to demand an explanation."

He felt himself equal to the ordeal. He was anxious now for her to come that it might be safely passed. As the hours went by he grew impatient; he placed her portrait on the easel and fancied the original was before him. He went through an imaginary dialogue with it in which he was wholly victorious. He no longer felt any emotion for this woman.

"I will begin a new life," he said, as he strode rapidly up and down the room; "a new life." But there was a feverishness in his voice that did not bode well for his resolution.

"I wish she would come," he muttered, fretfully.

His cheeks were hot and flushed, and his hands were like ice, and trembling. And the result was – that he failed – failed miserably and completely. When, an hour later, Evelin March entered the studio and, throwing off her wrap, stood before him, imperious, soulless and beautiful – a delicate odor, as of pansies, from her white flesh, stealing into his brain – his pledges of faith and his fair resolves melted away like walls of mist, and the face of Eva Delorme shrank back into the silent recesses of his heart, and only a small voice within him whispered, "Coward – traitor – "

She glanced at him sharply.

"Something troubles you, mon ami. You are not overjoyed at my coming. I have been fancying to myself how impatiently you were waiting."

His hands were no longer trembling. He was calm enough, now, but it was the calmness of defeat – of having yielded to the inevitable.

"I have indeed been waiting impatiently," he said, smiling. "You see that I have been even consoling myself with your picture," and he pointed to the easel.

"From an artistic point of view, only, I fancy."

"That is unkind. I have been holding a conversation with it that I fear I should hesitate to repeat – with the original."

"How interesting! A rehearsal, perhaps."

"Perhaps; and I was testing the powers of my work as compared to those of the original."

"And with the result" —

"That my work is a failure."

"How humiliating! May I ask in what way?"

"I could withstand the charms of the picture, but with the original" —

"Well, and with the original?"

"I failed."

The face before him was radiant; but down in his heart the small voice, growing very faint, still whispered, "Coward – traitor – fool."

That evening Harry Lawton found him sitting gloomily before the window looking out upon the shadows that were gathering in the little garden beneath. As the door opened he glanced up and nodded without speaking.

"Circe came?"

Again the artist nodded.

"And conquered?"

Another nod.

"Did you suppose for a moment that she wouldn't?"

No answer.

Lawton assumed a dignified attitude, and began with mock earnestness:

"Oh, wise man – thou who knowest so well the heart and the face of Nature – how little thou knowest of thine own soul!"

A shade of anguish swept over the artist's face, but he made no reply.

"Most gentle and gifted man! Last night I listened long and patiently to the scintillating wisdom of your wonderful brain. Let me now speak, while you, in turn, give ear.

"When, last night, you showed me the portraits and told me their history, I foresaw this moment. You are plunged into despair at the contemplation of your own weakness. You have been abusing your soul with hard names. Now, I would whisper to you with great gentleness that what you observed to me last night, about the sunlight and shadow of every life, is true; and that the brightness of the sun cannot illuminate, but only intensifies the blackness of the shade. Pursuing the same line of reasoning, I add that flowers bloom in the sunlight, while mushrooms thrive in the darkness. That because man is fond of mushrooms is no reason why he should be deprived of flowers. That because your purer and spiritual self reaches out for the stainless lily, is no reason why your material and grosser nature should be left starving. Because you are for a time intoxicated with Evelin March is no reason why, in your calmer and nobler existence, you should not love truly and sinlessly, Eva Delorme.

"I am aware that my logic is not wholly in accord with generally accepted theory. It accords much more nearly, perhaps, with universal practice – of course I refer only to men in the single walks of life. It is well known that all men after marriage are irreproachable. And when you have plucked your stainless lily, you, like the rest, will subsist only upon its fragrance. But really, for the present, I cannot see that your affair with Miss March in any way conflicts with your sentiments for Miss Delorme; and especially as you have known the latter but a few hours in all – hardly sufficient, I should think, to inspire a lifelong devotion. Truly, Julian, I would advise you not to take matters quite so seriously, and let the tide drift as it will for the present."

Throughout this long harangue Julian Goetze had listened in silence.

"Oh, Harry," he groaned, as the other paused, "you don't know what a traitor I am!"

"Well, possibly my sensibilities are not over fine, but I think you will be more comfortable for taking my advice."

Without replying, the artist rose and going into the adjoining room returned a moment later with a decanter and glasses.

"I am tired," he said, apologetically, as he caught the look of disapproval in his friend's eye; "it will do me good."

"None for me, Julian, before supper, and – I don't think, if – if I were you, I would take any, either."

"I am exhausted, Harry; I am not going to supper and I need it," he said, fretfully.

The other sighed and did not reply. Goetze filled one of the glasses and drank it off, then he resumed his seat by the window. A little later his friend took leave of him; reaching the street door he hesitated as if about to turn back, then he lifted the latch, and passed slowly out into the lighted street, closing the door gently behind him.

The next morning the studio of Julian Goetze was locked. It remained locked all day, and within, stretched upon the floor, unconscious, lay the gifted man, and by his side was an empty flask.