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 Contents

2021 5 177

SPOTLIGHT

Understanding China
52 70

The Strategic Challenges of Decoupling What the West Gets Wrong About China?
J. Stewart Black Rana Mitter
Allen J. Morrison Elsbeth Johnson

62 78

China's New Innovation Advantage

Zak Dychtwald Americans Don't Know How Capitalist China Is
Adi Ignatius

6 May 2021
FEATURE

82

How to Do Hybrid Right

Lynda Gratton

92

Eliminate Strategic Overload

–
Felix Oberholzer-Gee

104
AI
Getting AI to Scale
Tim Fountaine
Brian McCarthy
Tamim Saleh

May 2021 7
 Contents

2021 5 177

TAIWAN SPOTLIGHT

HOW WE DID IT
36

40

CEO
42

26
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Albert Bourla

8 May 2021
 Contents

2021 5 177

MANAGING YOURSELF HBR CASE STUDY

114
Savvy Self-Promotion
Leslie K. John

120
What Role Should a Company Play in a National
Crisis?

Christopher J. Malloy

126 1
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126 2
Margaret Schuler

12 16
DEPARTMENTS
22
14 Mary's Talk 128

10 May 2021
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Jeff Gothelf

HBR
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Mary's Talk
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May 2021 11
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EDITOR IN CHIEF
Adi Ignatius Chairman Charles H.C. Kao

EDITOR, HBR
Amy Bernstein Publisher Cora Wang

EDITOR, HBR.ORG Chairman Edward H. Chow

Maureen Hoch

CREATIVE DIRECTOR
John Korpics Advisers S.C. Hsu Joseph Lee Steve Chang

EXECUTIVE EDITORS
Daniel McGinn Sarah Moughty Ania G. Wieckowski
CEO Ma-Li Yang
SENIOR EDITORS
Laura Amico Alison Beard Scott Berinato David Champion Paris
Paige Cohen Gretchen Gavett Eben Harrell Jeff Kehoe
Senior Content Adviser Yeu-Wen Chang
Scott LaPierre Toby Lester Amy Meeker
Curt Nickisch Steven Prokesch Vasundhara Sawhney
Thomas Stackpole Erica Truxler HBR-CC Director of International Business Development Sharay Pan
SENIOR ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Courtney Cashman Kevin Evers Susan Francis EDITORIAL BOARD
Dave Lievens
Board Members
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Stefanie Fernández Emma Waldman
Tom Wang Ji-Ren Lee Swee-Huat Lee Lien-Ti Bei
ARTICLES EDITORS
Christina Bortz Susan Donovan Martha Lee Spaulding
Soe-Tsyr Daphne Yuan George J.Y. Hsu Chun-Yao Huang Chen-Fu Chien
ASSISTANT EDITORS
Ramsey Khabbaz Rakashitha Ravishankar
EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT
DESIGN DIRECTORS
Stephani Finks HBR Press
Susannah Haesche HBR Deputy Managing Editor-in-Chief Jane Deng
Marta Kusztra Product and UX

Deputy Editor-in-Chief Luc Chen

ASSOCIATE DESIGN DIRECTOR
Karen Player Multimedia

SENIOR DESIGNER Deputy Chief Writer Yen-Wen Chang

(PLO\&DXOÀHOG

EDITORIAL PRODUCTION DIRECTOR Senior Manuscript Editor Grace Wu

Dana Lissy

SENIOR PRODUCTION EDITORS Senior Digital Editor Belle Lin

Jennifer Waring Christine Wilder

PRODUCTION EDITORS HBR-CC

Victoria Desmond Jodi Fisher Anne Starr SALES AND MARKETING DEPARTMENT FOR HBR-CC

Director Even Chen

Project Manager Zephyr

Manager Wei-Ting Wang

Digital Marketing Associate Joy Liang

Sales and Marketing Associate Joseph Lin

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Other documents randomly have
different content
 More than an hour elapsed after Dorothy fled from her father's presence
before she could control herself sufficiently to seek her mother, who also
had been fighting a mighty battle in the solitude of her own room. Even
then the girl's eyes were red and swollen from excessive weeping; neither
had she been able to overcome wholly the grief-laden sobs which, for the
time, had utterly prostrated her.

"Mamma, he has told me, and—he has gone," she faltered, almost on the
verge of breaking down again, as she threw herself upon her knees by her
mother's side and searched with anxious eyes the white, set face of the
deserted wife.

"Yes, dear; I heard him go."

"Do you think it will be forever?"

"That is what a divorce—a legal separation—means, Dorothy."

The girl dropped her head upon her mother's shoulder, with a moan of
pain, and Helen slipped a compassionate arm around the trembling form.

"Mamma," Dorothy began again, after a few moments of silence.

"Well, dear?"

"I think it is awful—what he is doing; but don't you think that we—you
and I—can be happy again, by and by, just by ourselves?"

"I am sure we can, dearest," was the brave response, as Helen

Hungerford drew her daughter closer to her in a loving embrace.

Dorothy seized her mother's hand and kissed it passionately, two great,
burning tears dropping upon it as she did so.

"He asked me to go with him—to live with him some of the time," she
presently resumed.

"And you told him——" breathed Helen, almost inaudibly.

 "I was very disrespectful, mamma," confessed the girl humbly; "but I
couldn't help it when I thought what it all meant. I said I wouldn't live with
him for anything—I almost told him that I wouldn't care if I never saw him
again. Where will he go now? What will he do? Will—he marry that
woman?" she concluded, her voice growing hard and tense again.

Her mother's lips grew blue and pinched with the effort she made to
stifle a cry of agony at the shameful suggestion. But she finally forced
herself to reply, with some semblance of composure:

"I do not know, Dorothy, and we will try not to worry over anything that
he may do. However, when he secures the necessary decree from the court
he will have the legal right to do as he pleases."

"The legal right," repeated Dorothy reflectively.

"Yes, the law will give him the right to marry again if he wishes to do
so."

"What an abominable law! And what a shameful thing for any man to
want to do, when he already has a family! What will people think of us if he
does?" queried the girl, with a shiver of repulsion.

"My dear, ask rather what people will think of him," said her mother
tenderly, as she laid her lips in a gentle caress against the child's forehead.

"Of course, I know that nice people will not respect him; but I can't help
feeling that the shame of it will touch us, too," opposed sensitive Dorothy.

"No, dear; what he has done, or may do, cannot harm either you or me in
the estimation of our real friends," replied Helen, throwing a note of cheer
she was far from feeling into her tones. "It can only bring condemnation
upon himself, and you are not to feel any sense of degradation because of
your father's wrongdoing. We are simply the innocent victims of
circumstances over which we have no control; and, Dorrie, you and I will
so live that all who know us will be compelled to respect us for ourselves."
 Dorothy heaved a deep sigh of relief as her mother concluded, and her
somber eyes brightened perceptibly. She sat silently thinking for f several
minutes; then a cloud again darkened her face.

"Mamma," she began hesitatingly, "you said the law would give p—him
the right to do as he pleases—to marry that woman. Can you do as you
please? Could you——"

"Oh, hush, Dorothy!" gasped the tortured wife, in a shocked tone, and
laying an icy hand over the girl's lips. "When I married your father," she
went on more calmly after a little, "I promised to be true to him while we
both lived, and you must never think of anything like that for me—never—
never! He may choose another, but I—— Oh, God, my burden is heavier
than I can bear!"

Helen Hungerford buried her agonized face in her hands, cowering and
shrinking from the repulsive suggestion as if she had been smitten with a
lash.

Dorothy was shocked by the effect of her thoughtless question. She had
never seen her mother so unnerved before.

"Oh, mamma, don't!" she cried wildly. "I love you dearly—dearly—I did
not mean to hurt you so, and I hate him for making you so wretched—for
putting this dreadful disgrace upon us both. I will never forgive him—I
never want to see him again. I know it is wicked to hate, but I can't help it—
I don't care! I do—I do——"

These incoherent utterances ended in a piercing shriek as the

overwrought girl threw herself prone upon the floor at her mother's feet, in
a violent paroxysm of hysteria.

She was a sensitively organized child, proud as a young princess, and

possessed of a high sense of honor; and grief over the threatened break in
the family, together with fear of the opprobrium which she believed it
would entail upon her idolized mother, as well as upon herself, had been
preying upon her mind for several weeks; and now the climax had come,
the cloud had burst, and, with the strenuous excitement and experiences of
the day, had resulted in this nervous collapse.

Hours elapsed before Helen succeeded in soothing her into any degree of
calmness, and when at last she fell into a deep sleep, from utter exhaustion,
the forsaken wife found something very like hatred surging within her own
heart toward the faithless man who had ruthlessly wrecked their happiness.

"Neither will I forgive him for imposing this lifelong sorrow and taint
upon my child," she secretly vowed as she sat through the long, lonely
hours of the night, and watched beside the couch of her daughter.

In due time, she received formal announcement that her husband had
secured his divorce, and that she also was free, by the decree of the court;
and, following close upon this verdict, came the news that John
Hungerford, the artist, had gone abroad again to resume his studies in Paris.

It was significant, too, at least to Helen, that the same papers stating this
fact also mentioned that the Wells Opera Company, which had just finished
a most successful season in San Francisco, was booked for a long
engagement, with Madam Marie Duncan as leading soprano, in the same
city; the opening performance was set for a date in the near future.

CHAPTER III.

A BACKWARD GLANCE.

Helen Gregory Appleton was the only child of cultured people, who,
possessing a moderate fortune, had spared no pains or expense to give their
daughter a thorough education, with the privilege of cultivating whatever
accomplishments she preferred, or talent that she possessed.
 Helen was an exceptionally bright girl, and, having conscientiously
improved her opportunities, she had graduated from high school at the age
of seventeen, and from a popular finishing school at twenty, a beautiful and
accomplished young woman, the joy and pride of her devoted parents, who
anticipated for her not only a brilliant social career, but also an auspicious
settlement in life.

Her only hobby throughout her school life had been music, of which,
from childhood, she had been passionately fond. "I don't care for drawing or
painting," she affirmed, "so I will stick to music, and try to do one thing
well." And with no thought of ever making it a profession, but simply for
love of it, she had labored tirelessly to acquire proficiency in this
accomplishment, with the result that she not only excelled as a pianist, but
was also a pleasing vocalist—attainments which, later in life, were destined
to bring her rich returns for her faithful study.

It was during her last year in school that she had met John Hungerford, a
graduate of Yale College, and a promising young man, possessing great
personal attractions. He was bright, cheerful, and witty, always looking for
the humorous side of life; while, being of an easy-going temperament, he
avoided everything like friction in his intercourse with others, which made
him a very harmonious and much-sought-after companion. Naturally
courteous, genial, and quick at repartee, enthusiastically devoted to athletic
sports, ever ready to lead in a frolic and to entertain lavishly, he was
generally voted an "all-around jolly good fellow." Hence he had early
become a prime favorite with his class, and also with the faculty, and
remained such throughout his course.

He was not a brilliant scholar, however, and barely succeeded in winning

his degree at the end of his four years' term. He did not love study; he
lacked application and tenacity of purpose, except in sports, or such things
as contributed to his personal entertainment. At the same time, he had too
much pride to permit him to fail to secure his diploma, and he managed to
win out; but with just as little work and worry as possible.

The only direction in which he had ever shown a tendency to excel was
in art, the love of which he had inherited from his paternal grandfather,
who, in his day, had won some renown, both abroad and in his own country,
as a landscape painter; and from early boyhood "John Hungerford,
Second"—his namesake—had shown unmistakable talent in the same
direction.

Possessing a small fortune, which had fallen to him from this same
relative, the young man had given scarcely a serious thought to his future.

Life had always been a bright gala day to him; money was easy, friends
were plenty, and, with perfect health, what more could he ask of the years to
come? And when questioned regarding what business or profession he
purposed to follow, on leaving college, he would reply, with his usual
irresponsible manner: "It will be time enough to decide that matter later on.
I propose to see something of the world, and have some fun, before settling
down to the humdrum affairs of life."

Once the formality of their introduction was over, John had proceeded
forthwith to fall desperately in love with beautiful Helen Appleton, and, as
she reciprocated his affection, an early engagement had followed. Six
months later they were married, and sailed for Europe, with the intention of
making an extensive tour abroad.

Helen's parents had not sanctioned this hurried union without

experiencing much anxiety and doubt regarding the wisdom of giving their
idolized daughter to one whom they had known for so short a time. But
young Hungerford's credentials had appeared to be unquestionable, his
character above reproach, his personality most winning, and his means
ample; thus there had seemed no reasonable objection to the marriage.

The young man's wooing had been so eager, and Helen so enamored of
her handsome lover, who swept before him every argument or obstacle
calculated to retard the wedding with such plausible insistence, that the
important event had been consummated almost before they could realize
what it might mean to them all when the excitement and glamour had worn
away.

Frequent letters came to them from the travelers, filled with loving
messages, with enthusiastic descriptions of their sight-seeing, and
expressions of perfect happiness in each other; and the fond father and
mother, though lonely without their dear one, comforted themselves with
assurances that all was well with her, and they would soon have her back
with them again.

After spending a year in travel and sight-seeing, the young couple drifted
back to Paris, from which point they intended, after John had made another
round of the wonderful art galleries, which had enthralled him upon their
previous visit, to proceed directly home. But the artist element in him
became more and more awakened, as, day after day, he studied the world-
renowned treasures all about him, until he suddenly conceived the idea of
making art his profession and life work; whereupon, he impulsively
registered himself for a course in oils, under a popular artist and teacher,
Monsieur Jacques by name.

Helen would have preferred to return to her parents, for she yearned for
familiar scenes, and particularly for her mother at this time; but she yielded
her will to her husband's, and they made a pretty home for themselves in an
attractive suburb of Paris, where, a little later, there came to the young wife,
in her exile—for such it almost seemed to her—a great joy.

A little daughter, the Dorothy of our opening chapter, was born to John
and Helen Hungerford a few weeks after the anniversary of their marriage;
and, being still deeply in love with each other, it seemed to them as if their
cup of happiness was filled to the brim.

Shortly afterward, however, with only a few days between the two sad
events, cable messages brought the heartbreaking tidings that Helen's father
and mother had both been taken from her, and the blow, for the time,
seemed likely to crush her.

John, in his sympathy for his wife, was for immediately throwing up his
work, and taking her directly home; but Helen, more practical and less
impulsive than her husband, reasoned that there was nothing to be gained
by such a rash move, while much would have to be sacrificed in forfeiting
his course of lessons, which had been paid for in advance; while she feared
that such an interruption would greatly abate his enthusiasm, if it did not
wholly discourage him from the task of perfecting himself in his studies.
 She knew that her father's lawyer, who had been his adviser for many
years, was amply qualified to settle Mr. Appleton's business; and, having
unbounded confidence in him, she felt that whatever would be required of
her could be done as well by correspondence as by her personal presence.
Consequently it was decided best to remain where they were until John
should become well grounded in his profession, and able to get on without a
teacher.

But when Mr. Appleton's affairs were settled it was learned that the scant
sum of five thousand dollars was all that his daughter would inherit from
his estate. This unlooked-for misfortune was a great surprise to the young
husband and wife; a bitter disappointment, also, particularly to John
Hungerford, who had imagined, when he married her, that Helen would
inherit quite a fortune from her father, who, it was generally believed, had
amassed a handsome property.

Helen very wisely decided that the five thousand dollars must be put
aside for Dorothy's future education, and she directed the lawyer to invest
the money for the child, as his best judgment dictated, and allow the interest
to accumulate until they returned to America.

Three years slipped swiftly by after this, and during this time John, who
seemed really to love his work, gave promise of attaining proficiency, if not
fame, in his profession. At least, Monsieur Jacques, who appeared to take a
deep interest in his student's progress, encouraged him to believe he could
achieve something worth while in the future, provided he applied himself
diligently to that end.

Helen, though chastened and still grieving sorely over the loss of her
parents, was happy and content to live very quietly, keeping only one
servant, and herself acting the part of nurse for Dorothy. Before her
marriage she had supposed John to be the possessor of considerable wealth,
and this belief had been confirmed during their first year abroad by his
lavish expenditure. He had spared no expense to contribute to her pleasure,
had showered expensive gifts upon her, and gratified every whim of his
own. But when her father's estate had been settled he had betrayed deep
disappointment and no little anxiety in view of the small amount coming to
Helen; and it had finally come out that his own fortune had been a very
moderate one, the greater portion of which had been consumed during their
extravagant honeymoon.

This startling revelation set Helen to thinking very seriously. She

realized that the limited sum remaining to them would have to be carefully
husbanded, or they would soon reach the end of their resources. John's
studies were expensive, and it might be some time yet before he could
expect to realize from his profession an income that could be depended
upon, while, never yet having denied himself anything he wanted, he had no
practical idea of economy.

At length he sold a few small pictures, which, with some help in

touching up from monsieur, were very creditable to him. But instead of
being elated that his work was beginning to attract attention and be
appreciated, he was greatly chagrined at the prices he received for them,
and allowed himself to become somewhat discouraged in view of these
small returns; and, during his fourth year, it became evident that his interest
was waning, and he was growing weary of his work.

He had never been a systematic worker, much to the annoyance of his

teacher, who was rigidly methodical and painstaking in every detail. John
would begin a subject which gave promise of being above the ordinary, and
work well upon it for a while; but after a little it would pall upon his fancy,
and be set aside to try something else, while Monsieur Jacques would look
on with grave disapproval, and often sharply criticize such desultory efforts.
This, of course, caused strained relations between teacher and student, and
conditions drifted from bad to worse, until he began to absent himself from
the studio; at first for only a day in the week; then, as time went on, he grew
more and more irregular, and sometimes several days would elapse during
which he would do nothing at his easel, while no one seemed to know
where, or with whom, he was spending his time.

Monsieur Jacques was very forbearing. He knew the young man

possessed rare talent, if not real genius; he believed there was the promise
of a great artist in him, and he was ambitious to have him make his mark in
the world. He was puzzled by his peculiar moods and behavior, and strove
in various ways to arouse his waning enthusiasm. He knew nothing of his
circumstances, except that he had a lovely wife and child, of whom he
appeared to be very fond and proud, and he believed him to be possessed of
ample means, for he spent money freely upon himself and his fellow
students, with whom he was exceedingly popular; hence he was wholly
unable to account for his growing indifference and indolence, unless there
were some secret, subtle influence that was leading him astray—beguiling
him from his high calling.

Two years more passed thus, and still he had made no practical
advancement. He worked by fits and starts, but rarely completed and sold
anything, even though everything he attempted was, as far as developed,
alive with brilliant possibilities.

Helen had also realized, during this time, that something was very wrong
with her husband. He was often away from home during the evening, and
had little to say when she questioned him regarding his absence; sometimes
he told her he had been at the theater with the boys, or he had been bowling
at the club, or having a game of whist at the studio.

She was very patient; she believed in him thoroughly, and not a
suspicion arose in her loyal heart that he would tell her a falsehood to
conceal any wrongdoing on his part.

But one night he did not return at all; at least, it was early morning
before he came in, and, not wishing to disturb his wife, he threw himself,
half dressed, upon the couch in the library, where Helen found him, in a
deep sleep, when she came downstairs in the morning. She appeared
relieved on seeing him, and stood for a minute or two curiously searching
his face, noting how weary and haggard he looked after his night of evident
dissipation, while the odor of wine was plainly perceptible in his heavy
breathing.

Her heart was very sore, but she was careful not to wake him, for she felt
he needed to sleep, and she presently moved away from him, gathering up
the light overcoat he had worn the previous evening, and which he had
heedlessly thrown in a heap upon a chair on removing it. She gently shook
out the wrinkles, preparatory to putting the garment away in its place, when
something bright, hanging from an inner pocket, caught her eye.
 With the color fading from her face, she drew it forth and gazed at it as
one dazed.

It was a long, silken, rose-hued glove, that exhaled a faint odor of attar
of roses as it slipped from its hiding place. It was almost new, yet the shape
of the small hand that had worn it was plainly discernible, while on one of
the rounded finger tips there was a slight stain, like a drop of wine.

To whom did the dainty thing belong? How had it come into her
husband's possession? Had it been lost by some one returning from a ball,
or the opera, and simply been found by him? Or had it some more
significant connection with the late hours and carousal of the previous night
and of many other nights?

A hundred questions and cruel suspicions flashed thick and fast through
her mind and stung her to the quick, as she recalled the many evenings he
had spent away from her of late, and his evasive replies whenever she had
questioned him regarding his whereabouts.

She shivered as she stood there, almost breathless, with that creepy,
slippery thing that seemed almost alive, and a silent, mocking witness to
some tantalizing mystery, in her hand.

What should she do about it? Should she wake John, show him what she
had found, and demand an explanation from him? Or would it be wiser to
return the glove to its place of concealment, say nothing, and bide her time
for further developments?

She had never been a dissembler. As a girl, she was artless and
confiding, winning and keeping friends by her innate sincerity. As a wife,
she had been absolutely loyal and trustful—never before having entertained
the slightest doubt of her husband's faithfulness to her. Could she now begin
to lead a double life, begin to be suspicious of John, to institute a system of
espionage upon his actions and pursuits, and thus create an ever-increasing
barrier between them? The thought was utterly repulsive to her, and yet it
might perhaps be as well not to force, for a time, at least, a situation which
perchance would ere long be unfolded to her without friction or
estrangement.
 She glanced from the rose-hued thing in her hand to the sleeper on the
couch, stood thoughtfully studying his face for a moment; then she silently
slipped the glove into the pocket where she had found it, dropped the coat
back in a heap upon the chair, and stole noiselessly from the room.

CHAPTER IV.

A YOUNG WIFE'S BRAVE STRUGGLES.

Another year slipped by, with no change for the better in the domestic
conditions of the Hungerfords. When he felt like it, John would work at his
easel; when he did not, he would dawdle his time away at his club, or about
town, with companions whom, Helen began to realize, were of no
advantage to him, to say the least. Meantime, his money was fast melting
away, and there seemed to be no prospect of a reliable income from his art.

Helen became more and more anxious regarding their future, and often
implored her husband to finish some of his pictures, try to get them hung at
different exhibitions, and in this way perhaps find a market for them.

He was never really unkind to her, though often irritable; yet he was far
from being the devoted husband he had been during the first three or four
years of their married life. He would often make fair promises to do better,
and perhaps work well for a while; then, his interest flagging again, he
would drop back into his indolent ways, and go on as before.

One morning, just as he was leaving the house, John informed his wife
that he was going, with several other artists, to visit a noted château a few
miles out of Paris, where there was a wonderful collection of paintings,
comprising several schools of art, some of the oldest and best masters being
represented; and the owner of these treasures, the Duc de Mouvel, had
kindly given them permission to examine them and take notes at their
leisure. It was a rare opportunity, he told her, and she was not to be anxious
about him if he did not reach home until late in the evening.

Helen was quite elated by this information; it seemed to indicate that

John still loved his art, and she hoped that his enthusiasm would be newly
aroused by this opportunity to study such priceless pictures, and he would
resume his work with fresh zeal upon his return.

She was very happy during the day, refreshing herself with these
sanguine hopes, and did not even feel troubled that John did not come back
at all that night. The owner of the château had probably extended his
hospitality, and given the students another day to study his pictures, she
thought.

The third day dawned, and still her husband had not returned; neither
had he sent her any message explaining his protracted absence.

Unable longer to endure the suspense, Helen went in town, to the studio,
hoping that Monsieur Jacques might be able to give her some information
regarding the expedition to the Château de Mouvel.

But her heart sank the moment she came into the artist's presence.

He greeted her most cordially, but searched her face curiously; then
gravely inquired:

"And where is Monsieur Hungerford, madame? I hope not ill? For a

week now his brushes they have been lying idle."

"A week!" repeated Helen, with an inward shock of dismay. "Then,

Monsieur Jacques, you know nothing about the excursion to the château of
le Duc de Mouvel?"

"Excursion to the galleries of le Duc de Mouvel!" exclaimed the artist,

astonished. "But surely I know nothing of such a visit—no, madame."

Helen explained more at length, and mentioned the names of some of

those whom John had said were to be of the party.
 Her companion's brow contracted in a frown of mingled sorrow and
displeasure.

"I know nothing of it," he reiterated; "and the persons madame has
named are dilettante—they are 'no good,' as you say in America. They
waste time—they have a love for wine, women, and frolic; and it is
regrettable that monsieur finds pleasure in their company."

Helen sighed; her heart was very heavy.

"Monsieur is one natural artist," the master resumed, bending a

compassionate gaze on her white face; "born with talent and the love of art.
He has the true eye for color, outline, perspective; the free, steady, skillful
hand. He would do great work with the stable mind, but—pardon, madame
—he is what, in English, you call—lazy. He will not exercise the necessary
application. To make the great artist there must be more, much more, than
mere talent, the love of the beautiful, and skillful wielding of the brush;
there must be the will to work, work, work. Ah, if madame could but inspire
monsieur with ambition—real enthusiasm—to accomplish something, to
finish his pictures, he might yet win fame for himself; but the indifference,
the indolence, the lack of moral responsibility, and the love of pleasure—
ah, it all means failure!"

"But—the Duc de Mouvel—is there such a man? Has he a rare

collection?" faltered Helen, thus betraying her suspicion that her husband
had deceived her altogether regarding the motive of his absence.

"Yes, my child; I have the great pleasure of acquaintance with le Duc de

Mouvel," kindly returned Monsieur Jacques, adding: "He is a great
connoisseur in, and a generous patron of, all that is best in art; and if he has
extended to your husband and his friends an invitation to view the
wonderful pictures in his magnificent château at —— they have been
granted a rare honor and privilege."

In her heart, Helen doubted that they had ever been the recipients of such
an invitation; she believed it all a fabrication to deceive her and perhaps
others. It was a humiliating suspicion; but it forced itself upon her and
thrust its venomed sting deep into her soul.
 "If there is anything I can do for madame at any time, I trust she will not
fail to command me," Monsieur Jacques observed, with gentle courtesy, and
breaking in upon the troubled reverie into which she had fallen.

Helen lifted her sad eyes to his.

"I thank you, monsieur," she gratefully returned. "You are—you always
have been—most kind and patient." Then, glancing searchingly around the
room, the walls of which were covered with beautiful paintings, she
inquired: "Are there any of Mr. Hungerford's pictures here?"

"Ah! Madame would like to see some of the work monsieur has been
doing of late?" said the artist alertly, and glad to change the subject, for he
saw that his proffered kindness had well-nigh robbed her of her composure.
"Come this way, if you please, and I will show you," he added, turning to
leave the room.

He led her through a passage to a small room in the rear of the one they
had just left; and, some one coming to speak to him just then, excusing
himself, he left her there to look about at her leisure.

This was evidently John's private workroom; but it was in a very dusty
and untidy condition, and Helen was appalled to see the many unfinished
subjects which were standing against the walls, in the windows, and even
upon chairs. Some were only just begun; others were well under way, and it
would have required but little time and effort to have completed them and
made them salable.

She moved slowly about the place, pausing here and there to study
various things that appealed to her, and at the same time recognizing the
unmistakable talent that was apparent in almost every stroke of the brush.

At length she came to a small easel that had been pushed close into a
corner. There was a canvas resting on it, with its face turned to the wall, and
curiosity prompted her to reverse it to ascertain the subject, when a cry of
surprise broke from her lips as she found herself gazing upon the unfinished
portrait of a most beautiful woman.
 John had never seemed to care to do portraits—they were uninteresting,
he had always said—and she had never known of his attempting one before;
hence her astonishment.

The figure had been painted full length. It was slight, but perfect in its
proportions; the pose exceedingly graceful and natural, the features delicate,
the coloring exquisite. The eyes were a deep blue, arch and coquettish in
expression; the hair a glossy, waving brown, a few bewitching locks falling
softly on the white forehead, beneath a great picture hat. The costume was
an evening gown of black spangled net, made décoletté, and with only an
elaborate band of jet over the shoulders, the bare neck and beautifully
molded arms making an effective contrast against the glittering, coal-black
dress.

The girl was standing by a small oval table, one hand resting lightly
upon it, the other hanging by her side, and loosely holding a pair of long
silken gloves.

Helen's face flooded crimson as her glance fell upon the gloves. Even
though they were black, they were startlingly suggestive to her, and her
thought instantly reverted to the one, so bright-hued, which she had found
in the inner pocket of her husband's overcoat some months previous.

Had she to-day inadvertently stumbled upon the solution of that mystery
which had never ceased to rankle, with exceeding bitterness, in her heart
from that day to this?

There was still much to be done before the picture would be finished,
though it was a good deal further along than most of its companions.
Enough had been accomplished, however, to show that there had been no
lack of interest on the part of the artist while at work upon it.

Who was she—this blue-eyed, brown-haired siren in glittering black?

When and where had the portrait been painted? Had the woman come there,
to John's room, for sittings? Or was she some one whom he met often, and
had painted from memory? Helen did not believe she could be a model;
there was too much about her that hinted at high life, and of habitual
association with the fashionable world—possibly of the stage.
 She stood a long time before the easel, studying every line of the lovely
face until she found that, with all its beauty, there was a suggestion of
craftiness and even cruelty in the dark-blue eyes and in the lines about the
mouth and sensuous chin.

A step behind her caused Helen to start and turn quickly, to find
Monsieur Jacques almost beside her, his eyes fastened intently, and in
unmistakable surprise, upon the picture she had discovered.

"Who is she?" she demanded, almost sharply, and voicing the query she
had just put to herself.

"Madame, I have never before looked upon the picture—I did not even
know that Monsieur Hungerford had attempted a portrait," gravely returned
the artist. "It is finely done, however," he added approvingly.

"Has no woman been here for sittings?"

"No, madame; no one except our own models—I am sure not. That is not
allowed in my studio without my sanction and supervision," was the reply.
"It may be simply a study, original with monsieur; if so, it is very beautiful,
and holds great promise," the man concluded, with hearty appreciation.

Helen replaced the portrait as she had found it, somewhat comforted by
her companion's assurance and high praise of her husband's effort; then she
turned to leave the room.

"I thank you, monsieur, for your courtesy," she said, holding out to him a
hand that trembled visibly from inward excitement.

"Pray do not mention it, but come again, my child, whenever I can be of
service to you. Au revoir," he responded kindly, as he accompanied her to
the door and bowed her out.

Helen went home with a heavy heart. She was well-nigh discouraged
with what she had heard and seen. She had long suspected, and she was
now beginning to realize, that her husband's chief aim in life was personal
entertainment and love of ease; that he was sadly lacking in force of
character, practical application, and moral responsibility; caring more about
being rated a jolly good fellow by his boon companions than for his duties
as a husband and father, or for attaining fame in his profession.

Thus she spent a very unhappy day, haunted continually by that portrait,
and brooding anxiously over what the future might hold for them; while, at
the same time, she was both indignant and keenly wounded in view of
John's improvidence, prodigality, and supreme selfishness, and of his
apparent indifference to her peace of mind and the additional burdens he
was constantly imposing upon her.

John returned that evening, in a most genial mood. He made light of his
protracted absence and of Helen's anxiety on account of it, but offered no
apologies for keeping her in suspense for so long. He briefly remarked that
the party had concluded to extend their tour, and make more of an outing
than they had at first planned. It had evidently been a very enjoyable one,
although he did not go into detail at all, and when Helen inquired about the
Duc de Mouvel's wonderful collection of paintings, he appeared somewhat
confused, but said they were "grand, remarkable, and absolutely priceless!"
then suddenly changed the subject.

Helen's suspicion that the party had never been inside the Château de
Mouvel was confirmed by his manner; but she was too hurt and proud to
question him further, and so did not pursue the subject. She thought it only
right, however, to tell him of her visit to Monsieur Jacques, and what the
artist had said about his talent, and the flattering possibilities before him, if
he would conscientiously devote himself to his work. She referred to his
disapproval of his present course, and the company he was keeping;
whereupon John became exceedingly angry, in view of her "meddling," as
he termed it; said Monsieur Jacques would do better to give more attention
to his own affairs, and less to his; then, refusing to discuss the situation
further, he abruptly left the room in a very sulky frame of mind.

Helen had debated with herself as to the advisability of telling him of her
discovery of the portrait. She did not like to conceal anything from her
husband. She felt that every such attempt only served to establish a more
formidable barrier between them; but after the experience of to-night she
thought it would be wiser not to refer to the matter—at least until later.
 John evidently did some thinking on his own part that night, for he was
more like his former self when he appeared at breakfast the next morning,
and proceeded directly to the studio on leaving the house. He did better for
a couple of months afterward, manifested more interest in his work, and
finished a couple of pictures, which, through the influence of Monsieur
Jacques, were hung at an exhibition and sold at fair prices, greatly to
Helen's joy.

But instead of being inspired to even greater effort by this success, John
seemed content to rest upon his honors, and soon began to lapse again into
his former indolent ways, apparently indifferent to the fact that his money
was almost gone, and poverty staring himself and his family in the face.

Long before this, Helen had given up her maid, had practiced economy
in every possible way, and denied herself many things which she had
always regarded as necessary to her comfort. But the more she gave up, the
more John appeared to expect her to give up; the harder she worked, the
less he seemed to think he was obliged to do himself. Thus, with her
domestic duties, her sewing, and the care of Dorothy, every moment of the
day, from the hour of rising until she retired at night, the young wife was
heavily burdened with toilsome and unaccustomed duties.

It was a bitter experience for this delicately nurtured girl, but no word of
repining ever escaped her lips. She had pledged herself to John "for better
or worse," and, despite the unremitting strain upon her courage, patience,
and strength, despite her increasing disappointment in and constantly
waning respect for her husband, she had no thought but to loyally abide by
her choice, and share his lot, whatever it might be.

The day came, however, when John himself awoke to the fact that he had
about reached the end of his rope—when he was startled to find that less
than two hundred dollars remained to his credit in the bank, and poverty
treading close upon his heels. He knew he could no longer go on in this
desultory way; something radical must be done, and done at once. He was
tired of his art; he was tired of facing, day after day, Monsieur Jacques'
grave yet well-deserved disapproval; while, for some reason, he had
become weary of Paris, and, one morning, to Helen's great joy—for she
believed it the best course to pursue—he suddenly announced his intention
to return to the United States.

They sublet their house, and were fortunate in selling their furniture, just
as it stood, to the new tenant, thus realizing sufficient funds, with what
money they already possessed, to comfortably defray all expenses back to
San Francisco, which had been their former home, and to which Helen had
firmly insisted upon returning, although John had voiced a decided
preference for New York.

"No, I am going home—to my friends," she reiterated, but with her

throat swelling painfully as she thought she would find no father and
mother there to greet her. "I have lived in exile long enough; I need—I am
hungry to see familiar faces."

"But——" John began, with a rising flush.

"Yes, I know, we are going back poor," said his wife, reading his thought
as he hesitated; "but my real friends will not think any the less of me for
that, and they will be a comfort to me. Besides, all the furniture of my old
home is stored there, and it will be useful to us in beginning life again."

During the voyage Helen seemed happier than she had been for months.
The freedom from household cares and drudgery was a great boon to her,
and the rest, salt air, and change of food were doing her good; while the
anticipation of once more being among familiar scenes and faces was
cheering, even exhilarating, to her.

To Dorothy the ocean was a great marvel and delight, and it was a
pleasant sight to see the beautiful mother and her attractive little daughter
pacing the deck together, enjoying the novelty of their surroundings,
watching the white-capped waves, or the foaming trail in the wake of the
huge vessel, their bright faces and happy laughter attracting the attention of
many an appreciative observer.

John, on the contrary, was listless and moody, spending his time mostly
in reading, smoking, and sleeping in his steamer chair, apparently taking
little interest in anything that was going on about him, or giving much
thought to what was before him at his journey's end.

One morning Helen came on deck with two or three recent magazines,
which a chance acquaintance had loaned her. She handed two of them to her
husband, and, tucking herself snugly into her own chair, proceeded to look
over the other, with Dorothy standing beside her to see the pictures.

By and by the child ran away to play, and Helen became interested in a
story. A half hour passed, and she had become deeply interested in the tale
she was reading, when she was startled by a smothered exclamation from
John.

She glanced at him, to find him gazing intently at a picture in one of the
magazines she had given him. The man's face was all aglow with
admiration and pleased surprise, and she noted that the hand which held the
periodical trembled from some inward emotion.

Wondering what could have moved him so, yet feeling unaccountably
reluctant to question him, she appeared not to notice his excitement, and
composedly went on with her reading. Presently he arose, saying he was
going aft for a smoke, and left her alone; but, to her great disappointment,
taking the magazine with him.

Later in the day, on going to their stateroom, however, she found it in his
berth, tucked under his pillow!

Eagerly seizing it, she began to search it through, when suddenly, on

turning a leaf, a great shock went quivering through her, for there on the
page before her was the picture of a woman, the exact counterpart of the
half-finished portrait she had seen in John's work-room during her visit to
Monsieur Jacques.

Like a flash, her eyes dropped to the name beneath it.

"Marie Duncan, with the Wells Opera Company, now in Australia," was
what she read.
 On the opposite page was a brief account of the troupe and the musical
comedy, which, during the past season, had had an unprecedented run in
Paris, and was now making a great hit in Melbourne, Miss Duncan, the star,
literally taking the public by storm.

"Well, that mystery is finally solved! And doubtless she was the owner
of that pink glove, also," mused Helen, her lips curling with fine scorn, as
she studied the fascinating face before her. "Thank fortune," she presently
added, with a sigh of thankfulness, as she closed the book and replaced it
under the pillow, "she is away in Australia, and we are every day increasing
the distance between us."

She kept her own counsel, however, and gave no sign of the discovery
she had made.

The day preceding their landing in New York, Helen asked her husband
what plans he had made for their future, how he expected to provide for
their support upon reaching San Francisco.

"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, somewhat irritably. "Possibly I may ask

Uncle Nathan to give me a position in his office."

"And give up your art, John!" exclaimed Helen, in a voice of dismay,

adding: "You are better fitted for that than for anything else."

"But I shall have to do something to get a start. You know, it takes

money to live while one is painting pictures," he moodily returned.

"But it would not take very long to finish up some of them—the best
ones; and I feel sure they would sell readily," said his wife.

"The best ones would require the help of a good teacher, or an expert
artist, to complete," her husband curtly replied.

Helen sighed regretfully over the time which had been so wantonly
wasted in Paris, and during which, under the skillful supervision of
Monsieur Jacques, he might have finished much of his work, and at the
same time perfected himself upon many important points. She preserved a
thoughtful silence for several moments; then gravely inquired:

"Do you suppose, John, that, with another year of study, with some good
teacher, you could finish and dispose of the various subjects you have
begun?"

"Possibly I might," he briefly observed, but there was very little

enthusiasm in his tone or manner.

"Do you feel in the mood? Have you any ambition for honest,
painstaking effort—for hard work, John, to attempt this under a first-class
artist?" Helen persisted.

The man began to grow restive; he could never bear to be pinned down
to committing himself to anything, or to yield a point.

"You have no idea, Helen, what a grind it is to sit before an easel day
after day, and wield a brush," he said, in an injured tone, and with a frown
of annoyance.

"Everything is a grind unless you put your heart into your work—unless
one is governed by principle and a sense of moral responsibility," said
Helen gravely.

"Is that the way you have baked and brewed, washed dishes and made
beds the past year?" queried her husband, with a covert sneer.

"I certainly never baked and brewed, or washed dishes, solely from love
of the work," she quietly but significantly replied, as her glance rested upon
her wrist, where a faint scar was visible—the fading reminder of a serious
burn sustained when she first began her unaccustomed duties as cook and
maid of all work.

John observed it also, then quickly looked away, as he remembered that

she had never murmured or neglected a single duty on account of it.
 "But where is the money for a teacher coming from?" he inquired, after a
moment, and referring to Helen's unanswered question regarding his
unfinished work.

"You know Dorothy's money has been accumulating all these years," she
began in reply. "The interest now amounts to upward of fifteen hundred
dollars, and I will consent to use it for this purpose, if you will agree to do
your level best to make your unfinished pictures marketable during the
coming year."

Her husband flushed hotly—not because he experienced either gratitude

or a sense of shame in view of becoming dependent upon his wife's bounty,
but because it angered him to have conditions made for him.

He appeared to be utterly devoid of ambition for his future, and Helen's

suggestion possessed no real attraction for him. Painting had become a bore
—the last thing he had really taken any interest in having been the portrait
his wife had discovered in his studio just previous to the sailing of its
original for Australia.

John Hungerford had never performed a day's manual labor in his life,
and even though he had said he might ask his uncle for a position on his
arrival in San Francisco, he had no relish for the prospect of buckling down
to a humdrum routine of duties in Nathan Young's flourishing manufactory.

He sat chewing the cud of sullen discontent for some time, while
considering the situation, and finally gave Helen a half-hearted promise to
stick to his art, under a teacher, for another year. But his consent had been
so reluctantly given, his manner was so indifferent, Helen felt that she had
received very little encouragement to warrant that the future would show
any better results than the past, and the outlook seemed rather dark to her.