CHAPTER XXII
Helen Wistar came in out of the twilight in a mood half tragic, half joyous. She had been walking along the river. All the way her feet had beaten time to the music of her thoughts.
She scrutinized her picture in the gathering darkness. Was it so bad? That very morning Mr. Stanton had pronounced severe judgment upon it.
"The drawing's all wrong," he had said with frankness. "And it is neither one thing nor the other. Your figures aren't people and they aren't symbols."
Something on the canvas had caught his attention. He had examined it closely, then had turned toward Helen with astonishment in his eyes. The girl looked hurt.
"Miss Wistar," he had said, in that voice which so often caressed the listener without the owner's will, "you weren't
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