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Updated: June 9, 2025
"I had to see Drene that's why we are late," explained Guilder. "We're ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you " "Drene?" interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a curious and staring intensity. "Why drag Drene into an excuse?" "Because we went to his studio," said Guilder. "Now about letting the contracts " "Were you at Drene's studio?" "Yes.
He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever. For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene's bedroom with the studio. She held a sprig of holly. After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and, smiling, she came forward to the bedside. "It was a terrible dream," he whispered "all those years. But it was a dream." "You must dream no more." "No.
There came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene's eyes: "I'll take your commission for that altar piece," he said. "What is it? An Annunciation?" Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by the middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine until five; every evening they had dined together at the seashore or other suburban and cool resorts.
He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered. And so they stood alone together after many years. Graylock looked at Drene's heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in it.
Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs." "That's all that's necessary," said Guilder, gravely, " to entertain some belief, temporary or final." He smiled slightly down at Drene's drawn, gray visage. "You and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we have never before talked this way.
That Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Drene was a nine days' gossip among circles familiar to them both, and was forgotten as are all wonders in nine days. Some of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to be the tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman's name, and a man's Drene's closest friend.
After a silence Graylock said: "You don't care if you damn yourself?" "It's worth it to me." "Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as I am?" Drene's gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in silence. "Don't you care what you do to her?" asked Graylock, unsteadily. "It's a viler business than that for which you are punishing me."
So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven. As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her. After a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment.
Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night. In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in imagination.
There had been a time when law, order and neatness formed the basis of Drene's going forth and coming in. He had been exact, precise, fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover of beautiful things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol that suggested home and hearth and family. But when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an eye, something else broke, too.
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