of hard times. After graduation from an eastern college
of the second class, where he had distinguished himself by composing the
comic opera libretto for his club and drawing for the college annual, he
had chosen for himself the career of art. With a year in a New York art
school and another spent knocking about various European capitals in a
somewhat aimless fashion, an amiable but financially restricted family
had declined to embarrass itself further for the present with his
career. Or, as his Big Brother in Big Business had put it, "the kid had
better show what he can do for himself before we go any deeper." Jack
had consequently taken an opportunity to see the Fair and remained to
earn his living as best he could by contributing cartoons to the
newspapers, writing paragraphs in a funny column, and occasional verse
of the humorous order. And he designed covers for ephemeral
magazines,--in a word, nimbly snatched the scanty dollars of Art.

All this he sketched lightly and entertainingly for Milly's benefit that
first time.

Already he had achieved something of a vogue socially in pleasant
circles, thanks to his vivacity and good breeding. Milly had heard of
his charms about the time of her Crash, but had never happened to meet
him. He had heard of Milly, of course,--many things which might well
stir a young man's curiosity. So they smiled at each other across a
little table in a deserted restaurant, and sat on into the August
twilight, sipping cooling drinks. He smoked many cigarettes which he
rolled with fascinating dexterity between his long white fingers, and
talked gayly, while Milly listened with ears and eyes wide open to the
engrossing story of Himself.

Jack Bragdon was a much rarer type in Chicago of the early nineties--or
in any American city--than he would be to-day. Milly's experience of the
world had never brought her into close touch with Art. And Art has a
fatal fascination for most women. They buzz around its white arc-light,
or tallow dip, like heedless moths bent on their own destruction. Art in
the person of a handsome, sophisticated youth like Jack Bragdon, who had
seen a little of drawing-rooms as well as the pavements of strange
cities, was irresistible. (Milly too felt that she had in her something
of the artistic temperament, which had never been properly developed.)

Thus far, even by his own account, Bragdon was not much of an artist. He
was clever with his fingers,--pen or pencil,--but a