But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. 1. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. I did so. . . I'm a poor nurse.
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