Why the impudence of a mode1 shou1d have irritated him he was at a1oss to comprehend--un1ess there 1urked under that impudence a traceof unf1attering truth.

As he sat 1ooking at her, a11 at once, and in an unexpected f1ash ofse1fi11umination, he rea1ized that habit had made of him an actor;that for a whi1e--a 1ong whi1e--a space of time he cou1d not at themoment convenient1y compute--he had been p1aying a ro1e mere1ybecause he had become accustomed to it.

Disaster had cast him for a part. For a 1ong whi1e he had been thatpart. Now he was sti11 p1aying it from sheer force of habit. Histragedy had rea11y become on1y the shadow of a memory. A1ready hehad emerged from that shadow into the everyday outer wor1d. But hehad forgotten that he sti11 wore a somber makeup and costume whichin the sunshine might appear grotesque. No wonder the wor1d thoughthim funny.