of her and her husband, of her and baby
Angela, making arrangements which were classically simple. Then he chose
models from the streets,--laborers, washerwomen, drunkards--characters
all, destroying canvases frequently, but, on the whole, making steady
progress. He had a strange fever for painting life as he saw it, for
indicating it with exact portraits of itself, strange, grim
presentations of its vagaries, futilities, commonplaces, drolleries,
brutalities. The mental, fuzzy-wuzzy maunderings and meanderings of the
mob fascinated him. The paradox of a decaying drunkard placed against
the vivid persistence of life gripped his fancy. Somehow it suggested
himself hanging on, fighting on, accusing nature, and it gave him great
courage to do it. This picture eventually sold for eighteen thousand
dollars, a record price.

In the meantime his lost dream in the shape of Suzanne was traveling
abroad with her mother--in England, Scotland, France, Egypt, Italy,
Greece. Aroused by the astonishing storm which her sudden and uncertain
fascination had brought on, she was now so shaken and troubled by the
disasters which had seemed to flow to Eugene in her wake, that she
really did not know what to do or think. She was still too young, too
nebulous. She was strong enough in body and mind, but very uncertain
philosophically and morally--a dreamer and opportunist. Her mother,
fearful of some headstrong, destructive outburst in which her shrewdest
calculations would prove of no avail, was most anxious to be civil,
loving, courteous, politic anything to avoid a disturbing re-encounter
with the facts of the past, or a sudden departure on the part of
Suzanne, which she hourly feared. What was she to do? Anything Suzanne
wanted--her least whim, her moods in dress, pleasure, travel,
friendship, were most assiduously catered to. Would she like to go here?
would she like to see that? would this amuse her? would that be
pleasant? And Suzanne, seeing always what her mother's motives were, and
troubled by the pain and disgrace she had brought on Eugene, was
uncertain now as to whether her conduct had been right or not. She
puzzled over it continually.

More terrifying, however, was the thought which came to her occasionally
as to whether she had really loved Eugene at all or not. Was this not a
passing fancy? Had there not been some chemistry of the blood, causing
her to make a fool of herself, without having any real basis in
intellectual ra