on his temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished
as far as he was concerned.

An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many
years. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.

But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had
so long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange
and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or
less--little excursions from the dim privacy of mind and soul--and
he found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the
world once more.

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--"

"But I don't," remarked his partner dryly.

"For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell?
No. I merely thank you. Why? Because I don't want her if you can get
her away. That," he added, with satisfaction, "is philosophy. Isn't
it, Drene?"

Guilder intervened pleasantly: