r had heard of him a long time since through
his parents and his sister, whom they knew well and whom they visited
frequently. George Roth had moved here since Eugene had first left for
Chicago, and because he was so much on the road he had not seen him
since. Frieda, on all his previous visits, had been too young to take an
interest in men, but now at this age, when she was just blossoming into
womanhood, her mind was fixed on them. She did not expect to be
interested in Eugene because she knew he was married, but because of his
reputation as an artist she was curious about him. Everybody knew who he
was. The local papers had written up his success and published his
portrait. Frieda expected to see a man of about forty, stern and sober.
Instead she met a smiling youth of twenty-nine, rather gaunt and
hollow-eyed, but none the less attractive for that. Eugene, with
Angela's approval, still affected a loose, flowing tie, a soft turn-down
collar, brown corduroy suits as a rule, the coat cut with a belt,
shooting jacket fashion, a black iron ring of very curious design upon
one of his fingers, and a soft hat. His hands were very thin and white,
his skin pale. Frieda, rosy, as thoughtless as a butterfly, charmingly
clothed in a dress of blue linen, laughing, afraid of him because of his
reputation, attracted his attention at once. She was like all the young,
healthy, laughing girls he had ever known, delightful. He wished he were
single again that he might fall into a jesting conversation with her.
She seemed inclined to be friendly from the first.

Angela being present, however, and Frieda's foster mother, it was
necessary for him to be circumspect and distant. The latter, Sylvia and
Angela, talked of art and listened to Angela's descriptions of Eugene's
eccentricities, idiosyncrasies and experiences, which were a
never-failing source of interest to the common run of mortals whom they
met. Eugene would sit by in a comfortable chair with a weary, genial or
indifferent look on his face as his mood happened to be. To-night he was
bored and a little indifferent in his manner. No one here interested him
save this girl, the beauty of whose face nourished his secret dreams. He
longed to have some such spirit of youth near him always. Why could not
women remain young?

While they were laughing and talking, Eugene picked up a copy of Howard
Pyle's "Knights of the Round Table" with its warm heavy illustrations of
the Arthurian hero