CHAPTER XIII
"Console-moi ce soir; je me meurs d'esperance."
Anne Bradford could not sleep. There was a concert in the Music Hall, and the wailing of the violins disturbed her. It seemed as if the bows were being drawn across her nerves.
At last she rose and came into the studio, in her gray wrapper. One star was shining through the skylight. Anne lit her hanging lamp and made a fire in the fireplace, then stood over it, shivering, and warming her hands.
She studied anxiously her new picture on the easel. The work was bad. For weeks she had accomplished nothing worth while. And why? she demanded impatiently. This mental disturbance was only superficial. She was perfectly sure of herself. Some day Howard would learn to care about Helen. Even now he did
98
