ou mean," he began, slowly, "that I should have some opinions, then
I will tell you what they are.

"I believe neither in tariff nor trade. Currency nor coin. Traffic nor
toil. I believe in _nothing_--but the absolute freedom of every living
being. Freedom!--freedom from the curse of creeds, the blight of
bigotry, and the leprosy of the law. Freedom to go and to come, to live
and to die. Life without loathing, love without bondage. To live in some
sunlit valley, where the bud is ever bursting into flower, the flower
fading to fruit, and the fruit ripening to sustenance. The untouched
bosom of Nature would yield enough for her children had not the curse of
greed been implanted in their bosoms."

Goetze had turned away from the window and was again striding up and
down the floor in the dark.

"A beautiful poem, Julian," said the other, dreamily; "but a sort of
delightful barbarism, I'm afraid."

"Barbarism? No! A higher, purer intellectuality than we have ever yet
known--a civilization that knows not the curse of avarice nor the
miseries of crime--the weariness of wealth nor the pangs of poverty. The
garden of Eden is still about us, but we have torn up the flowers, and
desecrated it with the lust of gain. Man was never driven out of that
garden. Greed was planted in his heart and he destroyed it."

"Come," he continued, suddenly changing the subject, "I have made you
tired and hungry; let us go out, somewhere, to supper."

"Thanks," said the other, laughing; "I supposed a man in your condition
had no need of bodily sustenance. You are comfortably situated here,
Julian," he added, as they passed out into the street.

"Yes, it is quiet here--no bother with servants nor landladies. Once a
week my washerwoman comes and stays to put my establishment in order;
the rest of the time I am disturbed only by my sitters."

"You forget _me_."

"Yes, Harry," said the artist, taking his arm affectionately; "and by
you, of course."

IV.

When Julian Goetze arose the next morning he felt strong within himself
to withstand and conquer those fierce impulses of his savage heritage
that had answered to the blandishments of Evelin March. And yet he was
greatly troubled. He felt that in a large measure he had been to blame.
He blushed hotly as he recalled some of the things he had said to this
woman whom Harry had called a siren.

"Men are all scoundrels," he said, savagely; "I wonder if there are
really any who are not so