hop
windows, the libraries, the museums, the great streets, growing all the
while more despondent. At night he would return to his bare room and
indite long epistles to Angela, describing what he had seen and telling
her of his undying love for her--largely because he had no other means
of ridding himself of his superabundant vitality and moods. They were
beautiful letters, full of color and feeling, but to Angela they gave a
false impression of emotion and sincerity because they appeared to be
provoked by absence from her. In part of course they were, but far more
largely they were the result of loneliness and the desire for expression
which this vast spectacle of life itself incited. He also sent her some
tentative sketches of things he had seen--a large crowd in the dark at
34th Street; a boat off 86th Street in the East River in the driving
rain; a barge with cars being towed by a tug. He could not think exactly
what to do with these things at that time, but he wanted to try his hand
at illustrating for the magazines. He was a little afraid of these great
publications, however, for now that he was on the ground with them his
art did not appear so significant.

It was during the first few weeks that he received his only letter from
Ruby. His parting letter to her, written when he reached New York, had
been one of those makeshift affairs which faded passion indites. He was
so sorry he had to leave without seeing her. He had intended to come out
but the rush of preparation at the last moment, and so forth; he hoped
to come back to Chicago one of these days and he would look her up. He
still loved her, but it was necessary for him to leave--to come where
the greatest possibilities were. "I remember how sweet you were when I
first saw you," he added. "I shall never forget my first impressions,
little Ruby."

It was cruel to add this touch of remembrance, but the artist in him
could not refrain. It cut Ruby as a double edged sword, for she
understood that he cared well enough that way--aesthetically. It was not
her but beauty that he loved, and her particular beauty had lost its
appeal.

She wrote after a time, intending to be defiant, indifferent, but she
really could not be. She tried to think of something sharp to say, but
finally put down the simple truth.

"Dear Eugene:" she wrote, "I got your note several weeks ago, but I
could not bring myself to answer it before this. I know everything is
over between us and