At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact.
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