The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. She had to wait some minutes in an outer office, wherein three young men of spirited costume and appearance regarded her with ill-concealed curiosity and admiration. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. She had no place she loved. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. My wife—killed me.
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