e movement. She nodded her head affectionately.

"Yes, we Blues all hang together."

Eugene almost begrudged him his sister's apparent affection. Could such
a girl be cut out of such an atmosphere--separated from it completely,
brought into a radically different world, he wondered. Would she
understand him; would he stick by her. He smiled at Jotham and Mrs. Blue
and thought he ought to, but life was strange. You never could tell what
might happen.

During the afternoon there were more lovely impressions. He and Angela
sat alone in the cool parlor for two hours after dinner while he
restated his impressions of her over and over. He told her how charming
he thought her home was, how nice her father and mother, what
interesting brothers she had. He made a genial sketch of Jotham as he
had strolled up to him at noon, which pleased Angela and she kept it to
show to her father. He made her pose in the window and sketched her head
and her halo of hair. He thought of his double page illustration of the
Bowery by night and went to fetch it, looking for the first time at the
sweet cool room at the end of the house which he was to occupy. One
window, a west one, had hollyhocks looking in, and the door to the north
gave out on the cool, shady grass. He moved in beauty, he thought; was
treading on showered happiness. It hurt him to think that such joy might
not always be, as though beauty were not everywhere and forever present.

When Angela saw the picture which _Truth_ had reproduced, she was beside
herself with joy and pride and happiness. It was such a testimony to her
lover's ability. He had written almost daily of the New York art world,
so she was familiar with that in exaggerated ideas, but these actual
things, like reproduced pictures, were different. The whole world would
see this picture. He must be famous already, she imagined.

That evening and the next and the next as they sat in the parlor alone
he drew nearer and nearer to that definite understanding which comes
between a man and woman when they love. Eugene could never stop with
mere kissing and caressing in a reserved way, if not persistently
restrained. It seemed natural to him that love should go on. He had not
been married. He did not know what its responsibilities were. He had
never given a thought to what his parents had endured to make him worth
while. There was no instinct in him to tell him. He had no yearnings for
parenthood, that normal desire which