mind, and as such, so easily
dissolvable. These thoughts grew by degrees, in force, in power.

At the same time he was beginning to go out again a little. A chance
meeting with M. Charles, who grasped his hand warmly and wanted to know
where he was and what he was doing, revived his old art fever. M.
Charles suggested, with an air of extreme interest, that he should get
up another exhibition along whatever line he chose.

"You!" he said, with a touch of heartening sympathy, and yet with a glow
of fine corrective scorn, for he considered Eugene as an artist only,
and a very great one at that. "You,--Eugene Witla--an editor--a
publisher! Pah! You--who could have all the art lovers of the world at
your feet in a few years if you chose--you who could do more for
American art in your life time than anyone I know, wasting your time art
directing, art editing--publishing! Pouf! Aren't you really ashamed of
yourself? But it isn't too late. Come now--a fine exhibition! What do
you say to an exhibition of some kind next January or February, in the
full swing of the season? Everybody's interested then. I will give you
our largest gallery. How is that? What do you say?" he glowed in a
peculiarly Frenchy way,--half commanding, half inspiring or exhorting.

"If I can," said Eugene quietly, with a deprecating wave of the hand,
and a faint line of self-scorn about the corners of his mouth. "It may
be too late."

"'Too late! Too late!' What nonsense! Do you say that to me? If you can!
If you can! Well, I give you up! You with your velvet textures and sure
lines. It is too much. It is unbelievable!"

He raised his hands, eyes, and eye-brows in Gallic despair. He shrugged
his shoulders, waiting to see a change of expression in Eugene.

"Very good!" said Eugene, when he heard this. "Only I can't promise
anything. We will see." And he wrote out his address.

This started him once more. The Frenchman, who had often heard him
spoken of and had sold all his earlier pictures, was convinced that
there was money in him--if not here then abroad--money and some repute
for himself as his sponsor. Some American artists must be
encouraged--some _must_ rise. Why not Eugene? Here was one who really
deserved it.

So Eugene worked, painting swiftly, feverishly, brilliantly--with a
feeling half the time that his old art force had deserted him for
ever--everything that came into his mind. Taking a north lighted room
near Myrtle he essayed portraits