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"I intend to," I answered haughtily, uncertain as to whether I had better give in and be agreeable, or stay prepared to cry in case there was further argument. But suddenly a strange diffidence came into his eyes, and he looked away from me as he said in queer hesitating words— Elinor hesitated. "I don't know," she replied slowly, measuring her words. "I can't put my finger on it, but she doesn't seem the same to me as she did at first. She isn't jealous of my poor work, of course, but I can feel a something—a wall or barrier—that she raises up between us whenever my work is spoken of. I felt it when we talked about the subject of the prize designs, and I felt it today more clearly than ever. We can't be friends any more as we were, I'm afraid. Something has come between us. 'The little rift within the lute,'" she quoted sorrowfully. Patricia turned with a gasp of delight. "Bruce!" she cried delightedly. "You dear thing! You've come in the nick of time. Isn't it splendid that Elinor's won the prize? Did you hear about it? Aren't you perfectly crazy over it?".

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"Griffin says not to wait—she's got to finish stretching a canvas," Margaret Howes told them, but Patricia and Judith would not hear to beginning the little feast without the staunch and genial Griffin. "De--de--dead--dead!" she stammered, shrinking back. "Why, it's like a laundry," exclaimed Patricia in disappointment as she looked about her. The low-ceiled whitewashed apartment into which they had descended from the winding iron stair was sepulchrally bare and empty in the flicker of its noisy gas jets, the rusty gas stoves at its farther end emphasizing its general air of desolation. She followed them into the dressing room with her eyes busy but without a single word, and it was not until they had taken her through the various class rooms, deserted at this noon hour, and were on their way down to the lunch room that she found speech..