be tied up in the courts, or most
likely so, for Angela could sue him; and at any rate he would wish to
make reasonable provision for her, and that would require legal
adjustment. Apart from this investment, he had nothing now save his
salary, and that was not accumulating fast enough to do him much good in
case Mrs. Dale went to Colfax soon, and the latter broke with him. He
wondered if Colfax really would break with him. Would he ask him to give
up Suzanne, or simply force him to resign? He had noticed that for some
time Colfax had not been as cordial to and as enthusiastic about him as
he had formerly been, but this might be due to other things besides
opposition. Moreover, it was natural for them to become a little tired
of each other. They did not go about so much together, and when they did
Colfax was not as high-flown and boyish in his spirits as he had
formerly been. Eugene fancied it was White who was caballing against
him, but he thought if Colfax was going to change, he was going to
change, and there was no help for it. There were no grounds, he fancied,
in so far as the affairs of the corporation were concerned. His work was
successful.

The storm broke one day out of a clear sky, in so far as the office was
concerned, but not until there had been much heartache and misery in
various directions--with the Dales, with Angela, and with Eugene
himself.

Suzanne's action was the lightning bolt which precipitated the storm. It
could only come from that quarter. Eugene was frantic to hear from her,
and for the first time in his life began to experience those
excruciating and gnawing pangs which are the concomitants of uncertain
and distraught love. It manifested itself in an actual pain in his
vitals--in the region of the solar plexus, or what is commonly known as
the pit of the stomach. He suffered there very much, quite as the
Spartan boy may have done who was gnawed by the fox concealed under his
belt. He would wonder where Suzanne was, what she was doing, and then,
being unable to work, would call his car and ride, or take his hat and
walk. It did him no good to ride, for the agony was in sitting still. At
night he would go home and sit by one or the other of his studio
windows, principally out on the little stone balcony, and watch the
changing panorama of the Hudson, yearning and wondering where she was.
Would he ever see her again? Would he be able to win this battle if he
did? Oh, her beautiful face, her