It was not only the sense of mental growth and expansion that
exhilarated her, after her long drought, but the translation to a new
world. She lived in the past in these lives of dead men; and as she
read the biographies of great painters and musicians she shared their
disappointments and forgot her own. Her emotional nature was in
constant vibration, and this phenomenon was the more dangerous, as
she would have argued--had she thought about it at all--that having
been diverted to the intellect it must necessarily remain there.

If she had belonged to a later generation no doubt she would have
taken to the pen herself, and artistic expression would--possibly--
have absorbed and safe-guarded her during the remainder of her
genetic years; but such a thing never occurred to her. She was too
modest in the face of master work, and only queer freakish women
wrote, anyhow, not ladies of her social status.

Although her thoughts rarely strayed to Masters, he hovered a sort
of beneficent god in the background of her consciousness, the author
of her new freedom and content; but it was only after an unusually
long talk with him at a large dinner given to a party of
distinguished visitors from Europe, shortly before Society left town,
that she found herself longing to discuss with him books that a week
before would have been sufficient in themselves.

The opportunity did not arise however until she had been for more
than a fortnight "alone" in San Francisco. She was returning from her
daily brisk walk when she met him at the door of the hotel. They
naturally entered and walked up the stairs together. She had
immediately begun to ply him with questions, and as she unlocked the