"Well, well, I go. I shall look. But I have little hope--very, very
little hope."

He was constantly appearing under such pressure, at this studio and
that--examining, criticising. Alas, he selected the work of but few
artists for purposes of public exhibition and usually charged them well
for it.

It was this man, polished, artistically superb in his way, whom Eugene
was destined to meet this morning. When he entered the sumptuously
furnished office of M. Charles the latter arose. He was seated at a
little rosewood desk lighted by a lamp with green silk shade. One glance
told him that Eugene was an artist--very likely of ability, more than
likely of a sensitive, high-strung nature. He had long since learned
that politeness and savoir faire cost nothing. It was the first
essential so far as the good will of an artist was concerned. Eugene's
card and message brought by a uniformed attendant had indicated the
nature of his business. As he approached, M. Charles' raised eyebrows
indicated that he would be very pleased to know what he could do for
Mr. Witla.

"I should like to show you several reproductions of pictures of mine,"
began Eugene in his most courageous manner. "I have been working on a
number with a view to making a show and I thought that possibly you
might be interested in looking at them with a view to displaying them
for me. I have twenty-six all told and--"

"Ah! that is a difficult thing to suggest," replied M. Charles
cautiously. "We have a great many exhibitions scheduled now--enough to
carry us through two years if we considered nothing more. Obligations to
artists with whom we have dealt in the past take up a great deal of our
time. Contracts, which our Berlin and Paris branches enter into,
sometimes crowd out our local shows entirely. Of course, we are always
anxious to make interesting exhibitions if opportunity should permit.
You know our charges?"

"No," said Eugene, surprised that there should be any.

"Two hundred dollars for two weeks. We do not take exhibitions for less
than that time."

Eugene's countenance fell. He had expected quite a different reception.
Nevertheless, since he had brought them, he untied the tape of the
portfolio in which the prints were laid.

M. Charles looked at them curiously. He was much impressed with the
picture of the East Side Crowd at first, but looking at one of Fifth
Avenue in a snow storm, the battered, shabby bus pulled by a team of
lean, unkemp