Valerie West was twenty-two years old in February.

One year of life lay behind her; her future stretched away into sunlit infinity.
Neville attained his twenty-eighth year in March.

Years still lay before him, a few lay behind him; but in a single month he had waded so swiftly forward through the sea of life that the shallows were already passed, the last shoal was deepening rapidly.

Only immeasurable and menacing depths remained between him and the horizon--that pale, dead line dividing the noonday of to-day from the phantom suns of blank eternity.
It was that winter that he began the picture destined to fix definitely his position among the painters of his times--began it humbly, yet somehow aware of what it was to be; afraid, for all his courage, yet conscious of something inevitable impending.

It was Destiny; and, instinctively, he arose to meet it.
He called the picture "A Bride." A sapphire sky fading to turquoise, in which great clouds crowded high in argent splendour--a young girl naked of feet, her snowy body cinctured at the waist with straight and silvered folds, standing amid a riot of wild flowers, head slightly dropped back, white arms inert, pendant.