er was called; Gambler's Row in South Clark Street; the Whitechapel
Club, as a certain organization of newspaper men was called, and other
places frequented by the literati and the more talented of the newspaper
makers. Eugene, first because of a temperament which was introspective
and reflective, and second because of his aesthetic taste, which was
offended by much that he thought was tawdry and cheap about these
places, and third by what he considered his lack of means, took
practically no part in these diversions. While he worked in his class he
heard of these things--usually the next day--and they were amplified and
made more showy and interesting by the narrative powers of the
participants. Eugene hated coarse, vulgar women and ribald conduct, but
he felt that he was not even permitted to see them at close range had he
wanted to. It took money to carouse and he did not have it.

Perhaps, because of his youth and a certain air of unsophistication and
impracticability which went with him, his employers were not inclined to
consider money matters in connection with him. They seemed to think he
would work for little and would not mind. He was allowed to drift here
six months without a sign of increase, though he really deserved more
than any one of those who worked with him during the same period. He was
not the one to push his claims personally but he grew restless and
slightly embittered under the strain and ached to be free, though his
work was as effective as ever.

It was this indifference on their part which fixed his determination to
leave Chicago, although Angela, his art career, his natural restlessness
and growing judgment of what he might possibly become were deeper
incentives. Angela haunted him as a dream of future peace. If he could
marry her and settle down he would be happy. He felt now, having fairly
satiated himself in the direction of Ruby, that he might leave her. She
really would not care so very much. Her sentiments were not deep enough.
Still, he knew she would care, and when he began going less regularly to
her home, really becoming indifferent to what she did in the artists'
world, he began also to feel ashamed of himself, for he knew that it was
a cruel thing to do. He saw by her manner when he absented himself that
she was hurt and that she knew he was growing cold.

"Are you coming out Sunday night?" she asked him once, wistfully.

"I can't," he apologized; "I have to work."

"Yes, I kno