"She didn't believe in me--didn't believe I could paint--didn't believe in the things I wanted to do--so I just picked up my playthings and walked out of her existence." "Wife ?" queried Larry.
"Thank God, no!" exclaimed Hunt emphatically.

"No--'I thank whatever gods there be, I am the captain of my soul!' Oh, she's all right--altogether too good for me," he added.

"Here, try this tobacco." Larry picked up the pouch flung him and accepted without remark this being abruptly shunted off the track.

But he surmised that this woman in the background of Hunt's life meant a great deal more to the painter than Hunt tried to indicate by his attempt to dismiss her casually--and Larry wondered what kind of woman she was, and what the story had been.
The following day, clean-shaven and in his freshened clothes--they were smart and well-tailored, though sober indeed compared with Barney's, and two years behind the style of which Barney's were the extreme expression--Larry passed Maggie on the stairway with a smile, who gave him no smile in return, and started forth upon his quest.

He was well-dressed, he had money in his pockets, he had a plan, and the air of freedom of a new life was sweet in his nostrils.