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Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious of it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding that although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding, and very, very quiet.
And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying on the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging inert to the floor above an evening paper fallen there. "Hello, Guilder," he said, without rising, as the big architect shambled loosely through the open doorway. "How are you, Drene?" "All right. It's hot." "There's not a breath of air.
When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock, Providence has created a species of man who settles our bills." He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two thin streams through his nose. "Maybe Drene may marry her himself.
Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene continued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilder's suggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becoming slyly impudent. "And listen to me, Guilder. What the devil's a woman between friends?" argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. "You take my best girl away from me "
I seem to be journeying toward it without more obstacles and more embarrassments to encounter than confront the wayfarer who professes any other creed." After a while Drene sat up on his couch: "How did all this conversation start?" he asked uneasily.
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