could love
madly and beautifully, and this had never come to her.

Miss Finch's home, or rather studio, was with her family in East
Twenty-sixth Street, where she occupied a north room on the third floor,
but her presence in the bosom of that family did not prevent her from
attaining an individuality and an exclusiveness which was most
illuminating to Eugene. Her room was done in silver, brown and grey,
with a great wax-festooned candlestick fully five feet high standing in
one corner and a magnificent carved chest of early Flemish workmanship
standing in another. There was a brown combination writing desk and
book-shelf which was arrayed with some of the most curious
volumes--Pater's "Marius the Epicurean," Daudet's "Wives of Men of
Genius," Richard Jefferies' "Story of My Heart," Stevenson's "Aes
Triplex," "The Kasidah" of Richard Burton, "The House of Life" by Dante
Gabriel Rossetti, "Also sprach Zarathustra" by Friedrich Nietzsche. The
fact that they were here, after he had taken one look at the woman and
the room, was to Eugene sufficient proof that they were important. He
handled them curiously, reading odd paragraphs, nosing about, looking at
pictures, and making rapid notes in his mental notebook. This was
someone worth knowing, he felt that. He wanted to make a sufficiently
favorable impression to be permitted to know her better.

Miriam Finch was at once taken with Eugene. There was such an air of
vigor, inquiry, appreciation and understanding about him that she could
not help being impressed. He seemed somewhat like a lighted lamp casting
a soft, shaded, velvety glow. He went about her room, after his
introduction, looking at her pictures, her bronzes and clays, asking
after the creator of this, the painter of that, where a third thing came
from.

"I never heard of one of these books," he said frankly, when he looked
over the small, specially selected collection.

"There are some very interesting things here," she volunteered, coming
to his side. His simple confession appealed to her. He was like a breath
of fresh air. Richard Wheeler, who had brought him in, made no objection
to being neglected. He wanted her to enjoy his find.

"You know," said Eugene, looking up from Burton's "Kasidah" and into her
brown eyes, "New York gets me dizzy. It's so wonderful!"

"Just how?" she asked.

"It's so compact of wonderful things. I saw a shop the other day full of
old jewelry and ornaments and quaint stones and