Brown strode to center stage and Lucy quieted the instruments with a gesture. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. She was tempted to touch him in the car as they drove to the empty house, but she refrained for fear of causing a car accident. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. “Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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