And one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found him lying
on the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-stained, hanging
inert to the floor above an evening paper fallen there.

"Hello, Guilder," he said, without rising, as the big architect
shambled loosely through the open doorway.

"How are you, Drene?"

"All right. It's hot."

"There's not a breath of air. It looks like a thunder-storm in the
west."

He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features
with a damp handkerchief.

"Drene," he said, "a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a
chapel to the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We've pinched
the job. Can you do an altar piece?"

"What sort?"

"They want a Virgin. It's to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
It's for women to repair to--under certain and natural circumstances."

"I've so much on hand--"

"It's only a single figure-barring the dove. Why don't you do it?"