But Truedale, while much in the old home, still kept his five-room flat.  He bought a good, serviceable dog that preferred a bachelor life to any other and throve upon long evening strolls and erratic feeding.  There were plants growing in the windows—­and these Conning looked after with conscientious care.

When the first suffering and sense of abasement passed, Truedale discovered that life in his little apartment was not only possible, but also his salvation.  All the spiritual essence left in him survived best in those rooms.  As time went by and Nella-Rose as an actuality receded, her memory remained unembittered.  Truedale never cast blame upon her, though sometimes he tried to view her from the outsider’s position.  No; always she eluded the material estimate.

“Not more than half real,” so White had portrayed her, and as such she gradually became to Truedale.

He plunged into business, as many a man had before him, to fill the gaps in his life; and he found, as others had, that the taste of power—­the discovery that he could meet and fulfil the demands made upon him—­carried him out of the depths and eventually secured a place for him in the world of men that he valued and strove to prove himself worthy of.  He wisely went slowly and took the advice of such men as McPherson and his uncle’s old lawyer.  He grew in time to enjoy the position of trust as his duties multiplied, and he often wondered how he could ever have despised the common lot of his fellows.  He deliberately, and from choice, set his personal tastes aside—­time enough for his reading and writing when he had toughened his mental muscles, he thought.  Lynda deplored this, but Truedale explained: 

“You see, Lyn, when I began to carve the thing out—­the play, you know—­I had no idea how to handle the tools; like many fools with a touch of talent, I thought I could manage without preparation.  I’ve learned better.  You cannot get a thing over to people unless you know something of life—­speak the language.  I’m learning, and when I feel that I cannot help writing—­I’ll write.”

“Good!” Lynda saw his point; “and now let’s haunt the theatres—­see the machinery in running order.  We’ll find out what people want and why.”

So they went to the theatre and read plays.  Brace made the wholesome third and their lives settled into calm enjoyment that was charming but which sometimes—­not often, but occasionally—­made Lynda pause and consider.  It would not do—­for Con—­to fall into a pace that might defeat his best good.

But this thought brought a deep crimson to the girl’s cheeks.

And then something happened.  It was so subtle that Lynda Kendall, least of all, realized the true significance.

Once in the early days of her secured self-support, William Truedale had said to her: 

“You give too much attention, girl, to your tailor and too little to your dressmaker.”