"The more's the pity," said Adams, while the muscles about his mouth
twitched slightly, as they always did when he was deeply moved, "it's a
bigger waste. I wrote to her as a father might have done and begged her
to give it up," he went on, "and in return," he tapped the open sheet,
"she sends me this fierce, pathetic little letter and informs me grandly
that her life is dedicated. Dedicated, good Lord!" he exclaimed
compassionately, "dedicated to syndicated stories in the Sunday press
and an occasional verse in the cheaper magazines."

"And there's absolutely nothing to be done?" asked Trent.

Adams met the question with a frown.

"Oh, if it would make it all come right in the end, I'd go on publishing
her empty, trite little articles until Gabriel blows his trumpet."

"It wouldn't help, though, after all."

"Well, hardly--the quick way is sure to be the most merciful," he
laughed softly with the quality of kindly humour which never failed him,
"we'll starve her out as soon as possible," he declared.

As if to dismiss the subject, he refolded the letter, slipped it in its
envelope, and placed it in one of his crammed pigeon-holes. "Thank God,
your own case isn't of the hopeless kind!" he exclaimed fervently.

"Somehow success looks like selfishness," returned Trent, showing by his
tone the momentary depression which settled so easily upon his variable
moods.