It was the following Monday noon. Breen and Nielsen were seated at the last table in Landsmann’s rear dining room, eating and gossipping. “Gretchen!” called the former.

Erna’s successor came forward.

“Bring me a mocha tart, please.”

“Yes, sir”—and the girl walked away.

“So you think you’ll be able to finish your story?” Breen questioned.

“I think so,” was Nielsen’s thoughtful response. “I’ve found the missing link.”

“But is any story ever finished?” Breen protested. “Can’t you always find room for additional installments?”

Not being in an argumentative mood, Nielsen quietly accepted his friend’s criticism. Soon, they were both meditative. Gretchen brought the mocha tart and went away. Hers was a peace-loving temperament, in distinct contrast to Erna’s, an opinion Breen expressed. Nielsen again accepted his criticism.

“After all,” the artist added comfortably: “Erna was quite a study. I confess, she fooled me.”

“How so?”

“By running off with that young gladiator.”

“Then you think she’s living with him?”

“Of course. What other conclusion should I come to?”

Nielsen did not answer. At length he said: “Then you’re ready to alter your decision of the other day?”

“That she’s a moral little thing?” Breen replied.

“Yes, to some extent,” he declared generously. “Her last act does change my first consideration a bit. But I still refuse to credit her with being unmoral.”

“Which means that you believe her immoral?” Nielsen ventured in a droll tone.

“I suppose so.”

“Explain yourself!”

“She’s accepted a life contrary to Society’s code or her own code—if she was ever unconventional enough to have one, which I doubt.”

Nielsen smiled. “If what you say is true, we’re all of us more or less immoral.”

“Why so?”

“Because every one barters his soul some time during his existence, and some of us are doing so all the time. At heart, you know, we’re most of us, unmoral, in appearance, moral, but in action, immoral.”

Breen laughed in amiable derision. “What scrambled egg philosophy!” he cried. “Where did you learn it, noble scholar?”

“Nowhere,” Nielsen answered and frowned. But his ready good nature intervened and he observed gently: “At any rate, Breen, I disagree with you regarding Erna.”

“That she’s neither moral nor immoral?”

“She has a little bit of each—like all of us,” the young author agreed; “but fundamentally she’s unmoral.”

“Bravo! So that will be the end of your story?”

“I don’t know,” Nielsen silenced him and smiled a second time.

Breen shook his head with a knowing air. After an interval, he requested: “Will you see her again?”

“I’m not certain,” Nielsen said without emotion. “I imagine I will some time. But it won’t be necessary.”

The young men finished their meal.

A little later, Nielsen was alone in his studio. He was sitting at his small writing desk, looking over some material that lay in front of him. Presently, he seemed worried, but only for a moment. No, the point was absolutely clear. Erna had settled it for him the other evening. At heart, she was unmoral. The young author commenced writing.

Through some insidious channel, a thought managed to come between his mind and the manuscript: would he see her again? Quickly, he beat it down: it would be unnecessary to see her again; there was nothing more for him to learn. Still, he had enjoyed himself the other evening. The physical, so glorious, so great, had once more penetrated his life. Would he drive it away? Nielsen stopped writing.

Almost resentfully, he mused: What had he and the physical to do with each other? The physical gave him new experience, yes, but it was almost always experience that he courted and utilized for his work. He must not expect more; he must continue to sacrifice everything—thought, emotion, volition—to work. Nothing else existed; in no other way could he hope to reach the realm of artist. He must drive Erna and the other evening’s sensations from his memory. She had served as his model, no more; so he must not permit her personality or his own to interfere again. Furthermore, he must be cautious on her behalf as well. She was a joyous, healthy animal. Jimmy Allen was a joyous, healthy animal. They were mated, and were living together, undoubtedly. The chapter was closed. He must not desire more.

Nielsen tightened his resolve. In another moment, he was again busy, writing.

There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated more loudly. He looked around petulantly, got up, went over to the door and opened it. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, but not with cordiality.

Erna came in.

“I was down in the neighborhood,” she apologized.

“You were right to come up,” he reassured her, sorry to have treated her discourteously. “Take off your things!”

“But you’re busy,” she protested.

“Not at all. Only a little touch or two I was working on. They can wait.”

Reluctantly, Erna permitted him to help her remove her coat. She did not take off her hat. “Sit down,” he advised her, his regret for his momentary show of self-interest developing.

She sat down on a chair. He seated himself at his desk, but faced her. “What’s new?” he asked pleasantly.

“Nothin’ much,” she returned and glanced at him. His glance met hers, and he quickly looked elsewhere. He felt a sharp pain: he had gone too far the other evening. Erna likewise looked away. She had seen enough; her instinct knew. There was an awkward pause.

Nielsen gave her a sidelong glance. What could he do? This was dreadful. He should not have gone so far. Erna was staring at the floor. He could see her pugnacious nose and her determined mouth and chin, and felt somewhat relieved. Her case might not be as serious as he feared. She had tenacious strength of character. But the situation was very uncomfortable notwithstanding. He should not have gone so far. It was selfish—whether a man’s selfishness or an artist’s. Nielsen turned away.

Again, he glanced in her direction, but she was still staring at the floor. Luckily, she had Jimmy; they were living together—at least, he had taken that much for granted by putting her story and the bakery scandal side by side. They were suited to each other. What could or should she have to do with such a thing as an artist? Perhaps, the novelty in their short affair had appealed to her. She was a greedy nature. She craved everything: sun, moon, stars and all. He himself had only been one of them. This conjecture satisfied him considerably. And he breathed with returning freedom.

She looked up. He smiled. She smiled too. And he breathed still more freely.

“What have you been doing lately?” he questioned cheerfully.

“I’ve been busy straightenin’ out,” she replied, and looked at him.

He moved restlessly. There was a second pause, but only a short one.

“You’ve been busy too,” she said.

“Oh yes, I—I’ve been working on a story.”

“What kind of a story?”

“Merely a foolish little affair about a foolish little affair,” he hastened to condemn.

Her glance dropped. His work and her own lived apart. “I brought back ‘Little Eyolf’.”

“So I saw. Did you like it?”

“Not very much.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too sad,” she explained. “An’ I don’t like cripples.”

“Of course!” he broke out. “I forgot that you love only joy and happy people.”

“An’ freedom,” she concluded unconsciously.

“Certainly, and freedom,” he agreed.

He caught a glimpse of her eyes—eyes that could love you to-day and hate you to-morrow—and felt still more reconciled with circumstances. Erna craved freedom, and was free. She could take care of herself. She possessed that rare thing, the life-controlling temperament. Perhaps, she would not need even Jimmy Allen. How splendid she was! Would she hate him to-morrow? It would be a shame. He had only to raise his hand—and they could continue. But he must not, it would be so much better for her. She would be miserable with him: an artist and not a physical man. She belonged to Jimmy—and still more, to herself. He must not interfere, but leave her destiny to destiny. Nielsen felt almost completely relieved.

“You love your work, don’t you?” Erna announced with unexpected candor.

Nielsen looked at her with sharpened eyes. She was glorious. She had emphasized “love” and not “work.” He could scarcely reply.

“Don’t you?” she repeated.

She was more than glorious. Her own gameness had fought the problem for her. She required assistance from no one.

“Yes,” was all he was able to say, his emotions crowding him.

“Do you write a whole lot?”

“Yes, lots and lots, but it’s all trivial.” “Oh no!” she contradicted him.

“Oh yes!” he mimicked her, and laughed, although he did not know why. “My writings are as much like life—” as you are like art, he would have finished, but hesitated.

“As what?” she assisted him.

“As the catching of butterflies is like the catching of rats,” he closed with a return to himself.

“Oh, the Rat-wife!” she interpreted.

“Yes.”

“You’re not a rat-wife writer then?”

“No.”

“You’re not a butterfly writer either?”

“Why not?”

“’Cause butterflies come from caterpillars, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Nielsen admitted and laughed again, although his emotions were threatening him, as before. “I forgot about the caterpillars.”

“Yes, I hate ’em,” she reminded him. “They’re too—too—”

“Fuzzy wuzzy!” he helped her.

“Yes,” she accepted and laughed for the first time, if not very heartily.

Nielsen studied her with frank admiration. Her nature was that of a lioness. She looked capable of pushing over or slipping from under any circumstance. She did not even require one’s sympathy. And still?—But he resisted the temptation. For her sake, it would be better not to continue.

“I must be goin’,” she said suddenly.

“Oh no, not yet!” he begged.

“Yes, I must be goin’,” she insisted and got up. “I got shoppin’ to do.”

“Haven’t you finished decorating?” he inquired, and got up against his will.

“No,” she returned and smiled.

Nielsen helped her with her coat. He was tempted to put his arms about her, but resisted. It would make her departure more difficult. She turned around. “Is my hat on straight?”

“Oh yes,” he assured her and added, by way of controlling himself: “Vanitas vanitatum!”

“What’s that?”

“More triviality!” he declared.

Erna started toward the door, but he stopped her with: “Don’t you want another book to read?”

The temptation was a strong one, but she dodged it: “No, I’ll be too busy now. Maybe, later on,” she concluded with a lingering tone.

Nielsen looked away. Erna continued toward the door, but he hurried after her and opened and held it open for her.

“Good-bye,” she said. “Oh no, not good-bye, but au revoir!” he quoted gently.

“That’s a hard word to pronounce.”

“Try it anyhow,” he encouraged her.

“Orrevore!”

“Fine!” he congratulated her, repeated the phrase, and added: “Come in again soon.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

But she never did.