clothes, and O Heaven! I
don't know what all--more things than I had ever seen in my whole life
before; and here in this quiet side street and this unpretentious house
I find this room. Nothing seems to show on the outside; everything seems
crowded to suffocation with luxury or art value on the inside."

"Are you talking about this room?" she ventured.

"Why, yes," he replied.

"Take note, Mr. Wheeler," she called, over her shoulder to her young
editor friend. "This is the first time in my life that I have been
accused of possessing luxury. When you write me up again I want you to
give me credit for luxury. I like it."

"I'll certainly do it," said Wheeler.

"Yes. 'Art values' too."

"Yes. 'Art values.' I have it," said Wheeler.

Eugene smiled. He liked her vivacity. "I know what you mean," she added.
"I've felt the same thing about Paris. You go into little unpretentious
places there and come across such wonderful things--heaps and heaps of
fine clothes, antiques, jewels. Where was it I read such an interesting
article about that?"

"Not in _Craft_ I hope?" ventured Wheeler.

"No, I don't think so. _Harper's Bazaar_, I believe."

"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Wheeler. "_Harper's Bazaar!_ What rot!"

"But that's just what you ought to have. Why don't you do it--right?"

"I will," he said.

Eugene went to the piano and turned over a pile of music. Again he came
across the unfamiliar, the strange, the obviously distinguished--Grieg's
"Arabian Dance"; "Es war ein Traum" by Lassen; "Elegie" by Massenet;
"Otidi" by Davydoff; "Nymphs and Shepherds" by Purcell--things whose
very titles smacked of color and beauty. Gluck, Sgambati, Rossini,
Tschaikowsky--the Italian Scarlatti--Eugene marvelled at what he did not
know about music.

"Play something," he pleaded, and with a smile Miriam stepped to the
piano.

"Do you know 'Es war ein Traum'?" she inquired.

"No," said he.

"That's lovely," put in Wheeler. "Sing it!"

Eugene had thought that possibly she sang, but he was not prepared for
the burst of color that came with her voice. It was not a great voice,
but sweet and sympathetic, equal to the tasks she set herself. She
selected her music as she selected her clothes--to suit her capacity.
The poetic, sympathetic reminiscence of the song struck home. Eugene was
delighted.

"Oh," he exclaimed, bringing his chair close to the piano and looking
into her face, "you sing beautifully."

She gave him a glittering sm