and reminiscences which refreshed and entertained the trio day by day
year in and year out. They were at their best strolling through some
exhibit or preliminary view of an art collection offered for sale, when
all their inmost convictions of what was valuable and enduring in art
would come to the surface. All three were intolerant of reputations as
such, but were strong for individual merit whether it carried a great
name or not. They were constantly becoming acquainted with the work of
some genius little known here, and celebrating his talents, each to the
others. Thus Monet, Degas, Manet, Ribera, Monticelli, by turns came up
for examination and praise.

When Eugene then, toward the end of September, announced that he might
be leaving them shortly, there was a united wail of opposition. Joseph
Smite was working on a sea scene at the time, doing his best to get the
proper colour harmony between the worm-eaten deck of a Gold Coast
trading ship, a half naked West Coast negro handling a broken wheel, and
a mass of blue black undulations in the distance which represented the
boundless sea.

"G'wan!" said Smite, incredulously, for he assumed that Eugene was
jesting. There had been a steady stream of letters issuing from
somewhere in the West and delivered here week after week, as there had
been for MacHugh, but this by now was a commonplace, and apparently
meant nothing. "You marry? What the hell do you want to get married for?
A fine specimen you will make! I'll come around and tell your wife."

"Sure," returned Eugene. "It's true, I may get married." He was amused
at Smite's natural assumption that it was a jest.

"Stow that," called MacHugh, from his easel. He was working on a country
corner picture, a group of farmers before a country post office. "You
don't want to break up this shack, do you?" Both of these men were fond
of Eugene. They found him inspiring, helpful, always intensely vigorous
and apparently optimistic.

"I don't want to break up any shack. But haven't I a right to get
married?"

"I vote no, by God!" said Smite emphatically. "You'll never go out of
here with my consent. Peter, are we going to stand for anything like
that?"

"We are not," replied MacHugh. "We'll call out the reserves if he tries
any game like that on us. I'll prefer charges against him. Who's the
lady, Eugene?"

"I bet I know," suggested Smite. "He's been running up to Twenty-sixth
Street pretty regularly." Joseph was thinkin