household life interfered too much, and the more I tried to force my
brain the more I fatigued it. The result was that I had a bad six
months with myself, and then gave out, just on the verge of insanity.

"Yes, my home life nearly maddened me, as I have said. Then, I took a
studio, lived in it, and visited my wife twice a week. The result was
that I got my work done, and found my wife as glad to see me as I was
to see her. It was like a lad's going to see his girl; and, talk as you
like about conjugal bliss, a woman gets tired of a man about the house
all day long. Still, there is a danger attached to this dual residence.
One must walk straight, for he is a marked man. I had an experience at
the beginning that taught me the need of prudence.

"It was while I was mentally convalescent, but yet a very weak man,
nervous, irritable, and of unsound judgment. There was about the same
kind of a crowd in the building as now--artists, musicians, actors, and
actresses. There were women coming and going at all hours, and all
sorts of shady characters had access to the place. One day a neighbor
named Bunker brought a pleasing young person in black into my place,
and introduced us. She was the widow, she informed me, of a newspaper
man, who often, when alive, had spoken of me. So hearing that I was in
the building, she had asked her friend, Mr. Bunker, to bring us
together, as she wished to know her dear husband's friends. She wiped
away a tear at this point--genuine, too.

"Now, I had no remembrance of her husband, but, feeling kindly toward
any newspaper man's widow, I welcomed her, and Bunker left us together.
She was intelligent, with literary aspirations, and we chatted a while
very agreeably. Then she borrowed a book, and left.

"I had noticed that, though neatly dressed, her clothing was palpably
cheap in quality, and, when she came again--without Bunker, this
time--it seemed a little more worn than was consistent with good times.
So I questioned her gently, and learned that she had eaten nothing that
day. She was trying to make her way by writing short stories, and that
fact aroused my pity--a pity that grew when I saw her eat the luncheon
I provided from my ice-box.

"She did not come again for a month, and then she appeared with the
blackest eye I had ever seen on a woman. She was seedier than ever, and
looked hungry. I was deeply sorry for her, believing her clothing a
sure index of an honest woman's struggle to rem