fascinate me," replied she. "But I'd have to get used to
these friends of yours. You made their acquaintance one or a few
at a time. It's very upsetting, being introduced to all at once."

She felt Brent's gaze upon her--that unfathomable look which
made her uneasy, yet was somehow satisfying, too. He said, after
a while, "Palmer is to give me his photograph. Will you give me
yours?" He was smiling. "Both of you belong in my gallery."

"Of course she will," said Palmer, coming out on the balcony
and standing beside her. "I want her to have some taken right
away--in the evening dress she wore to the Opera last week.
And she must have her portrait painted."

"When we are settled," said Susan. "I've no time for anything
now but shopping."

They had come to inspect the apartment above Brent's, and had
decided to take it; Susan saw possibilities of making it over
into the sort of environment of which she had dreamed. In
novels the descriptions of interiors, which weary most
readers, interested her more than story or characters. In her
days of abject poverty she used these word paintings to
construct for herself a room, suites of rooms, a whole house,
to replace, when her physical eyes closed and her eyes of
fancy opened wide, the squalid and nauseous cell to which
poverty condemned her. In the streets she would sometimes
pause before a shop window display of interior furnishings; a
beautiful table or chair, a design in wall or floor covering
had caught her eyes, had set her to dreaming--dreaming on and
on--she in dingy skirt and leaky shoes. Now--the chance to
realize her dreams had come. Palmer had got acquainted with
some high-class sports, American, French and English, at an
American bar in the rue Volney. He was spending his
afternoons and some of his evenings with them--in the
evenings winning large sums from them at cards at which he
was now as lucky as at everything else. Palmer, pleased by
Brent's manner toward Susan--formal politeness, indifference to
sex--was glad to have him go about with her. Also Palmer was
one of those men who not merely imagine they read human nature
but actually can read it. He _knew_ he could trust Susan. And
it had been his habit--as it is the habit of all successful
men--to trust human beings, each one up to his capacity for
resisting temptation to treachery.

"Brent doesn't care for women--as women," said he. "He never
did. Don't you think he's queer?"

"H