shier at any time and draw from five hundred to a
thousand dollars. He always had from one hundred and fifty to three
hundred dollars in his purse in denominations of five, ten and twenty
dollar bills. He carried a small check book and most frequently paid by
check. He liked to assume that he was known and frequently imposed this
assumption on others.

"Eugene Witla! Eugene Witla! George! he's a nice fellow,"--or "it's
remarkable how he has come up, isn't it?" "I was at the Witlas' the
other night. Did you ever see such a beautiful apartment? It's perfect!
That view!"

People commented on the interesting people he entertained, the clever
people you met there, the beautiful women, the beautiful view. "And
Mrs. Witla is so charming."

But down at the bottom of all this talk there was also much envy and
disparagement and never much enthusiasm for the personality of
Mrs. Witla. She was not as brilliant as Eugene--or rather the comment
was divided. Those who liked clever people, show, wit, brilliance, ease,
liked Eugene and not Angela quite so much. Those who liked sedateness,
solidity, sincerity, the commoner virtues of faithfulness and effort,
admired Angela. All saw that she was a faithful handmaiden to her
husband, that she adored the ground he walked on.

"Such a nice little woman--so homelike. It's curious that he should have
married her, though, isn't it? They are so different. And yet they
appear to have lots of things in common, too. It's strange--isn't it?"

CHAPTER XLIV

It was in the course of his final upward progress that Eugene came once
more into contact with Kenyon C. Winfield, Ex-State Senator of New York,
President of the Long Island Realty Company, land developer, real estate
plunger, financier, artist, what not--a man very much of Eugene's own
type and temperament, who at this time was doing rather remarkable
things in a land speculative way. Winfield was tall and thin, black
haired, black eyed, slightly but not offensively hook nosed, dignified,
gracious, intellectual, magnetic, optimistic. He was forty-eight years
of age. Winfield was a very fair sample of your man of the world who has
ideas, dreams, fancies, executive ability, a certain amount of reserve
and judgment, sufficient to hold his own in this very complicated mortal
struggle. He was not really a great man, but he was so near it that he
gave the impression to many of being so. His deep sunken black eyes
burned with a peculiar l