"Marceline was away when Marsh arrived. She hadn't been enthusiastic
about his coming, and had refused to decline an invitation from some of
our friends in St. Louis which came about that time for her and Denis. Denis, of course, stayed to receive his guest, but Marceline had gone
on alone. It was the first time they had ever been separated, and I
hoped the interval would help dispel the sort of daze that was making
such a fool of the boy. Marceline showed no hurry to get back, but
seemed to me to prolong her absence as much as she could. Denis stood
it better than one would have expected from such a doting husband, and
seemed more like his old self as he talked over other days with Marsh
and tried to cheer the listless esthete up. "It was Marsh who seemed most impatient to see the woman; perhaps
because he thought her strange beauty, or some phase of the mysticism
which had gone into her one-time magical cult, might help to reawaken
his interest in things and give him another start toward artistic
creation. That there was no baser reason, I was absolutely certain
from what I knew of Marsh's character. With all his weaknesses, he
was a gentleman, and it had indeed relieved me when I first learned
that he wanted to come here because his willingness to accept Denis'
hospitality proved that there was no reason why he shouldn't. "When, at last, Marceline did return, I could see that Marsh was
tremendously affected. He did not attempt to make her talk of the
bizarre thing which she had so definitely abandoned, but was unable
to hide a powerful admiration which kept his eyes--now dilated in
that curious way for the first time during his visit--riveted to her
every moment she was in the room. She, however, seemed uneasy rather
than pleased by his steady scrutiny; that is, she seemed so at first,
though this feeling of hers wore away in a few days, and left the two
on a basis of the most cordial and voluble congeniality. I could see
Marsh studying her constantly when he thought no one was watching,
and I wondered how long it would be that only the artist, and not the
primitive man, would be aroused by her mysterious graces. "Denis naturally felt some irritation at this turn of affairs; though
he realized that his guest was a man of honor and that, as kindred
mystics and esthetes, Marceline and Marsh would naturally have things
and interests to discuss in which a more or less conventional person
could have no part. He didn't hold anything against anybody, but merely
regretted that his own imagination was too limited and traditional to
let him talk with Marceline as Marsh talked. At this stage of things
I began to see more of the boy. With his wife otherwise busy, he had
time to remember that he had a father, who was ready to help him in any
difficulty. "We often sat together on the veranda watching Marsh and Marceline as
they rode up or down the drive on horseback, or played tennis on the
court that used to stretch south of the house. They talked mostly in
French, which Marsh, though he hadn't more than a quarter-portion of
French blood, handled more glibly than either Denis or I could speak
it. Marceline's English, always academically correct, was rapidly
improving in accent; but it was plain that she relished dropping back
into her mother-tongue. As we looked at the congenial couple they made,
I could see the boy's cheek and throat muscles tighten; though he
wasn't a whit less ideal a host to Marsh, or a whit less considerate a
husband to Marceline. "All this was generally in the afternoon; for Marceline rose very late,
had breakfast in bed, and took an immense amount of time preparing to
come downstairs. It was in these morning hours that Denis and Marsh did
their real visiting, and exchanged the close confidences which kept
their friendship up despite the strain that jealousy imposed. *       *       *       *       *

"Well, it was in one of those morning talks on the veranda that Marsh
made the proposition which brought on the end. I was laid up, but
had managed to get downstairs and stretch out on the front parlor
sofa near the long window. Denis and Marsh were just outside; so I
couldn't help hearing all they said. They had been talking about art,
and the curious, capricious environmental elements needed to jolt an
artist into producing work of merit, when Marsh suddenly swerved from
abstractions to the personal application he must have had in mind from
the start. "'I suppose,' he was saying, 'that nobody can tell just what it is in
some scenes or objects that makes them esthetic stimuli for certain
individuals. Basically, of course, it must have some reference to each
man's background of stored-up mental associations; for no two people
have the same scale of sensitiveness and responses. For some of us
all ordinary things have ceased to have any emotional or imaginative
significance, but no one responds in the same way to exactly the same
extraordinary thing. Now take me, for instance....

"'I know, Denny, that I can say these things to you because you have
such a preternaturally unspoiled mind--clean, objective, and all that. You won't misunderstand. The fact is, I think I know what's needed to
set my imagination working again. I've had a dim idea of it ever since
we were in Paris, but I'm sure now. It's Marceline, old chap; that face
and that hair, and the train of shadowy images they bring up. Not
merely visible beauty--though God knows there's enough of that--but
something peculiar and individualized, that can't exactly be explained. Do you know, in the last few days I've felt the existence of such a
stimulus so keenly that I honestly think I could outdo myself, if I
could get hold of paint and canvas at just the time when her face and
hair set my fancy stirring and weaving. "'There is something weird and other-worldly about it, something joined
up with the dim ancient thing Marceline represents. I don't know how
much she's told you about that side of her, but I can assure you
there's plenty to it. She has some marvelous links with the outside.' "Some change in Denis' expression must have halted the speaker here,
for there was a considerable spell of silence before the words went on. I was utterly taken aback, for I'd expected no such overt development
as this, and I wondered what my son could be thinking. My heart
began to pound violently, and I strained my ears in the frankest of
intentional eavesdropping. Then Marsh resumed. "'Of course you're jealous--I know how a speech like mine must
sound--but I can swear to you that you needn't be.' "Denis did not answer, and Marsh went on. "'To tell the truth, I could never be in love with Marceline--I
couldn't even be a cordial friend of hers in the warmest sense. Why,
damn it all, I feel like a hypocrite talking with her these days as
I've been doing.