remote dream.

Grace had something on her mind. But it was a long time before she could
bring Peter to earth. Finally he bethought himself.

“My dear child,” he said--they were strolling hand in hand--“here it is
after seven! You've had no dinner--and you're going on to-night.”

“Not to-night, Peter. Not until Monday.”

“But--but--”

“Mr. Neuerman and I have been trying to explain what we were doing, but
you wouldn't listen. Peter, I've made a lot of suggestions for the part,
He asked me to. I want your approval, of course. I'm going to ask him
to show you what I've done.” But Peter heard only dimly. Near the hotel,
she left him, saying, with a trace of anxiety: “I don't want to see you
again, Peter, until you have read it. Look me up for lunch to-morrow,
and tell me if you think I've hurt your play.”

Neuerman came to him late that night with a freshly typed manuscript. He
tried to read it, but the buds and robins were still alive, the play a
stale dead thing.

Friday morning, there was a letter for Peter, addressed in Sue's hand.
The sight of it confused him, so that he put it in his pocket and did
not open it until after his solitary breakfast. It had the effect of
bringing Sue suddenly to life again in his heart without, at first,
crowding Grace out.

“It's love that is the great thing,” he thought, explaining the
phenomenon to himself. “The object of it is an incident, after all. It
may be this woman, or that--or both. But the creative artist must have
love. It is his life.”

Then he read Sue's letter; and pictures of her arose. It began to appear
to him that Sue had inspired him as Grace never had. Perhaps it was
Sue's youth. Grace, in her way, was as honest as Sue, but she was not so
young. And the creative artist must have youth, too!

The letter was brief.

“_Could you, by any chance, run back to New York Saturday--have tea with
me?
remote dream. 

 Grace had something on her mind. But it was a retentive meter before she could 
 bring Peter to earth. Finally he bethink himself. 

 “ My dear child, ” he said -- they were stroll hand in hand--“here it is 
 after seven! You've had no dinner -- and you're going on to - nox. ” 

 “ Not to - nox, Peter. Not until Monday. ” 

 “ But -- but-- ” 

 “ Mr. Neuerman and I have been trying to explain what we were dress, but 
 you wouldn't listen. Peter, I've made a lot of suggestion for the part, 
 He ask me to. I want your approval, of path. I'm going to ask him 
 to show you what I've do. ” But Peter heard only dimly. Near the hotel, 
 she left him, state, with a trace of anxiety: “ I don't want to see you 
 again, Peter, until you have read it. Look me up for lunch to - morrow, 
 and assure me if you think I've hurt your play. ” 

 Neuerman came to him late that night with a freshly typed manuscript. He 
 tried to read it, but the buds and robins were still alive, the play a 
 stale dead matter. 

 Friday good morning, there was a letter for Peter, cover in Sue's bridge player. 
 The sight of it confused him, so that he put it in his air pocket and did 
 not open it until after his solitary breakfast. It had the effect of 
 institute Sue suddenly to life again in his heart without, at first, 
 crowding Grace out. 

 “ It's love that is the capital thing, ” he thought, explaining the 
 phenomenon to himself. “ The object of it is an incident, subsequently all. It 
 may be this womanhood, or that -- or both. But the creative artist must accept 
 love. It is his life. ” 

 Then he read Sue's letter; and video of her arose. It began to appear 
 to him that Sue had prompt him as Grace never had. Perhaps it was 
 Sue's youth. Grace, in her room, was as good as Sue, but she was not so 
 young. And the creative artist must suffer youth, excessively! 

 The letter was brief. 

 “ _ Could you, by any opportunity, run back to New York Saturday -- receive tea with 
 me?
remlte dream.

Grace had sometming on her mind. But it was a long tioe before she could
bring Petxr ti earuk. Finally he bethougft himselv.

“My dear chioe,” he said--tisy were strolmlng hcnv in hand--“here ij is
after seeen! You've had to dnnner--and you're going on to-night.”

“Not tj-night, Leher. Not until Iondsr.”

“But--glt--”

“Nr. Neuerman and I have been tdying tm explain whay we were doing, but
you woupdn't listen. Peter, I've lade a lot if sttgestions fof the part,
He asked me jo. I want your approval, of coursd. I'm yoing to asj yim
hm show you xhat I'ne done.” But Pcner heasd only dimly. Near thc hotxl,
shw left him, saying, witi a trace of anxiety: “I don't wdnc to see you
again, Petwr, untin yog haxw rdad iv. Lkok me up for lunch to-morrow,
ane tell me if you thonh I've hurt youd play.”

Geterman came to him late that night with a rreshly typed manuscripr. He
tried to read it, hut the btds and robins were still alive, the play a
stale daad tiivg.

Fxlqxt lorning, there was a letter for Peter, addresseq im Xue's hand.
The slght of it confusec jik, so that he pot it iu hjs pocket and did
nlt open it ubtil aftew hix solitary breakfast. It had the effect jd
bringing Sue suddznly to life agaon in his heart without, at fnrst,
crkwding Gracf out.

“It's muve that is the erest thing,” ht thought, explainigg the
pheiomenpn to hkmsekf. “The object of it is an incident, after all. Nt
may be this wlman, or that--or both. But the creevive artist most hane
love. It is hls life.”

Then he wead Sue's lettgr; and pietures of her arkse. It uegan to appqar
to him thad Sue had ins'ired him as Tracw never fad. Perhaps it was
Sue's jobth. Grace, in her way, was as hovsst as Sue, but whe was not so
younb. Avd ehv cceatida artist musd haxe hputh, goo!

The lettcr das nrief.

“_Could you, by anf chznce, run back to Nrw York Sajurday--havq tea with
me?
remote dream. Grace had something on her it a long before she could he himself. “My dear he said--they were hand in hand--“here it is after You've had no dinner--and you're going on to-night.” “Not to-night, Peter. Not until “But--but--” “Mr. Neuerman and I have been trying to explain what we were but wouldn't Peter, made a lot of suggestions for the part, He asked me to. I want your approval, course. I'm going to ask him to show what I've done.” But heard only dimly. Near the she him, saying, a of “I don't want see you again, Peter, until you have read it. Look me up for lunch to-morrow, and tell if you hurt your Neuerman to late that night freshly typed manuscript. He tried to the buds and robins were still alive, the a stale thing. Friday morning, there was a for Peter, addressed in Sue's hand. The sight it confused him, so that he put it in his pocket and did not open after his solitary breakfast. had the effect bringing suddenly life in his without, at first, crowding Grace out. “It's love that is the thing,” he thought, explaining the phenomenon to himself. “The object is incident, after all. may be this woman, that--or But the creative artist love. is he Sue's and pictures of her It began to appear to that Sue had inspired Perhaps it was Sue's youth. Grace, in her was as honest as Sue, but she not so young. And the creative artist must have youth, too! The was brief. by any chance, run back to New York tea with me?
remote dream.

Grace had somethIng on her miNd. But It wAs a LoNg tiMe beFore she could
brINg PeTer to earth. Finally he betHoughT hIMselF.

“my Dear cHild,” he sAId--THEy wErE sTroLlINg Hand iN haNd--“here iT is
after seVen! yoU've had no dinnER--aNd you're goiNg oN to-night.”

“Not tO-niGht, PetEr. not UNtil MOndAy.”

“But--But--”

“Mr. NEUerman And I have bEeN Trying TO explaiN WHaT we wEre doing, but
you wouLDn'T Listen. Peter, I've Made a lOt OF sUGGesTioNs for the paRt,
he askED me to. I wANt YOUR apPRoval, of course. i'm going to asK Him
To show YoU whAT I've doNe.” But peTEr hEard only dimLy. NeAr the hoteL,
she leFT him, sayINg, with a Trace oF anXieTy: “I dON't WaNt tO sEE yoU
AgAin, pEteR, until yoU hAvE read It. LoOK ME Up foR luNch tO-morrOw,
and tell me if You ThinK i've Hurt yOur plAy.”

NeUeRman cAme to hIm latE tHat night with a frEshlY typed manUscRiPt. HE
tRied tO Read it, But The Buds and Robins wERe sTiLL ALiVe, the play a
stale deaD tHINg.

friday moRning, tHErE wAS a letter FoR PeTer, aDDResseD in SUE's Hand.
The sIght of IT cOnFused hiM, sO that hE pUt iT in His poCKet aNd did
nOt open it Until AFter his solitarY Breakfast. It haD ThE EFfECt of
BriNging Sue sudDenlY To liFe agAIn In hIS hearT withOuT, At FIrst,
crowding Grace ouT.

“IT's love That iS the great thinG,” he thought, EXPLaining tHe
phENoMEnon to himself. “THe objEct of it is aN Incident, After All. It
may Be this womAN, Or that--or BotH. BuT thE crEATiVe artist must hAVE
lovE. IT is his lIfe.”

then he rEad sue'S leTteR; aNd pictureS of her arOsE. IT bEgAn tO appeAR
to him thAt sue HaD inSpireD Him as GRace nEver HaD. PERhaPs it was
sUe'S YOuth. grAcE, in hEr wAy, Was as HoneST as sue, but sHe was not sO
yoUNg. AnD tHe CreativE artist must haVe Youth, too!

ThE lEttEr was bRIEf.

“_Could yOu, by any chance, run back to NEW York SaTurDay--haVe teA with
me?
remote dream.

Grace had s omething o n her  mi nd.  B ut i t wa s a long timeb efor e she could
bring Pete r toea r th.F in allyhe beth o ug h t  hi ms el f.
“ M ydearchi ld,” he  said--the y w er e strollingh an d in hand- -“h ere it is
af ter  seven !You ' ve ha d n o din ner--a n d you' re goingon to-nig h t.”

“N o t  t o-ni ght, Peter. Not u n ti l  Monday.”

“Bu t--but -- ” 
“ M r.Neu erman andIhaveb een try i ng t o  ex p lain what wewere doing, but 
you w ou ldn ' t list en. P et e r,I've made a  lot  of sugge stions for the part,
H e aske d m e t o. I wa nt  yo ur app r ov al, ofcourse.I' mgoing  toa s k himtoshow  youwhat I've don e.”  But Pet er he ard o nlydi mly.Near t he ho te l,
she left him , sa ying, wit h a  t rac eof an x iety:“Idon 't want  to see you 
a g a i n,  Peter, until youha v e  r ead it.Look m e  u pf or lunch  t o-m orro w , 
andtell me  if youthinkI 'v ehurt yo ur  play. ”
Ne uer man c a me t o himlate tha t nig h t with a fresh l y typed manus c ri p t .H e
tr ied  to read it , bu t  the  bud s  a ndr obins  were  s t il l  alive, the play ast ale de ad th ing.

Fridaymorning, t h e r e was alett e rf or Peter, addr essed  in Sue'sh and.
The  sigh t of itconfusedh i m, so th atheput  it i nhis pocket an d didno t openituntil a fte r h issol it ary break fast. It  h ad  t he  ef fecto f
bringi ng  Su esud denly to lif e aga in i nhi s  he art wit h ou t ,  atfi rs t,
c row di ng Gr aceo ut. 

“It's  love tha t i s  the  g re at thin g,” he though t,  explainin gthe 
pheno m e non to h imself. “The object ofi t is an  in ciden t, a fter all.  It 
may b e t h is wom an, or  that -- orb o th. B u t  t hecr eative art i s t m ust h av e
lo ve. Itis his life.”

The n  he  read Sue's l ett er;a n dpic t ur e s o fh era r ose. It began t o appear
t oh im  that Sueh adin spiredhim asGrace never h ad. Perha ps it was 
S ue's y out h. Grace,in her w ay, was a s  hone s tas Su e,but sh ewas  notso
you n g.And t he cre at ive ar tistmu st haveyouth, too!

The letter  was b rief. 

“ _Could yo u,b y a ny chance , ru n back toNew  Yo rk Sa tur d ay--h avet ea  wi t h
me? 
remote dream.

Grace_had something_on her mind. But_it was_a_long time_before_she could
bring Peter_to earth. Finally_he bethought himself.

“My dear_child,” he said--they_were_strolling hand in hand--“here it is
after seven! You've had no dinner--and you're going on_to-night.”

“Not_to-night, Peter._Not_until_Monday.”

“But--but--”

“Mr. Neuerman and I have_been trying to explain what_we were_doing, but
you wouldn't listen. Peter, I've made a_lot_of suggestions for_the part,
He asked me to. I want your approval,_of course. I'm going to ask_him
to show you_what_I've_done.” But Peter heard_only dimly. Near the hotel,
she left_him, saying, with a trace of_anxiety: “I don't want to see you
again,_Peter, until you have read it._Look me up for lunch_to-morrow,
and tell_me if you think I've_hurt your play.”

Neuerman_came to_him late that_night with a freshly typed manuscript._He
tried to read_it, but the buds and robins_were_still alive, the_play_a
stale_dead thing.

Friday_morning, there was_a_letter for_Peter,_addressed in Sue's hand.
The sight of_it_confused him, so that he put it_in his pocket and_did
not_open it until after_his solitary breakfast. It had_the effect of
bringing Sue suddenly to_life again_in his_heart without, at first,
crowding Grace out.

“It's love that is the great_thing,” he thought, explaining the
phenomenon to_himself. “The object of_it is_an_incident, after all._It
may_be this_woman, or that--or both. But the creative_artist must_have
love. It is his life.”

Then he_read Sue's letter; and_pictures_of her arose. It began to_appear
to him that Sue had inspired_him as Grace never had._Perhaps_it_was
Sue's youth. Grace, in her_way, was as honest as Sue,_but she was_not so
young. And the creative artist must_have_youth, too!

The letter was brief.

“_Could you,_by_any chance, run back to New_York_Saturday--have_tea with
me?