One might paint the worst pictures even seen; one might languish unto death for love of the most accidental girl in one's path; one might eat a bad oyster and die, or live a century in the enjoyment of a busy progency,—and it didn't make a particle of difference, provided one made an honest attempt to be productive. Dishonesty and infertility obstructed the course of the spheres; in conjunction they constituted the unpardonable sin.
The elation which these thoughts brought him proved to be but an anaesthetic; when he awoke next morning, into a minute division of the cosmos adorned with faded silk and dusty stucco, the petty, insistent pangs were on him again,—pangs which the sight and presence of only one of God's many minions could effectually soothe.
He was weary of trying to live down his passion, Today, he resolved, I will cease fighting it. ······· Much as he disliked the approach to Olga through Floss's refuge for lost souls, much as he repudiated the thought of poaching on Oscar Hellgren's preserves, much as he disliked the whole flavor of the intrigue before him, Grover's resolution held firm. If you are honest with yourself, he amended Marthe's dictum, you can justify yourself in any course of procedure short of murdering your defenceless grandmother. To be honest with himself was to admit that Olga was a
