He lives out of town, but comes to the city daily for a
certain stimulus. The petite woman with the pretty colour who has crossed
the room to speak to him is the best known writer of New England romance.
That shy-looking fellow standing against the curtain at your right, with
the brown mustache and broad forehead, is the New England sculptor whose
forcible creations are known everywhere, yet he is almost shrinkingly
modest, and he never, it seems, even in thought, has broken the
injunction of "Let another praise thee, not thine own lips."
Half a dozen promising painters are standing in the doorway talking to a
young woman who, beginning with newspaper work, has stepped suddenly into
a niche of fiction. The tall, loose-jointed man at the left of the group,
the editor of a conservative monthly, has for his vis-a-vis the artist
who has had so much to do with the redemption of American architecture
and decoration from the mongrel period of the middle century. Another
night you may not see a single one of these faces, but another set, yet
equally interesting.
Meanwhile Martin Cortright had discovered a man, a financier and also a
book collector of prominence, who was reputed to have a complete set of
some early records that he had long wished to consult; he had never found
a suitable time for meeting him, as the man, owing to having been
oftentime the prey of both unscrupulous dealers and parasitic friends,
was esteemed difficult.
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