missing--her conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died?
Were the little, inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its
disintegration? Or its immortal vitality?

Dead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully aware of
its loss--dimly and childishly troubled that she could remember
nothing to be sorry for. And there was so much.

Men in his profession who knew him began to look askance at him and
her, amused or otherwise, according to their individual characters.

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. But gossip does not last long among the busy--not
that the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with it
quickly, having other matters to think about.

Even Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his own
condescending advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuously
inflammable attentions elsewhere.

He had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he and
Guilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at his
dapper confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at first
bored, grew irritable.