a laughed. "I see I'm all alone
here except for Mr. Smite. Never mind. You all will be sorry when I'm
gone."

"I believe that," replied MacHugh, feelingly.

Smite simply stared. He was lost in admiration of her cream and peach
complexion, her fluffy, silky brown hair, her bright blue eyes and plump
rounded arms. Such radiant good nature would be heavenly to live with.
He wondered what sort of a family this was that Eugene had become
connected with. Angela, Marietta, a brother at West Point. They must be
nice, conservative, well-to-do western people. Marietta went to help her
sister, and Smite, in the absence of Eugene, said: "Say, he's in right,
isn't he? She's a peach. She's got it a little on her sister."

MacHugh merely stared at the room. He was taken with the complexion and
arrangement of things generally. The old furniture, the rugs, the
hangings, the pictures, Eugene's borrowed maid servant in a white apron
and cap, Angela, Marietta, the bright table set with colored china and
an arrangement of silver candlesticks--Eugene had certainly changed the
tenor of his life radically within the last ten days. Why he was
marvellously fortunate. This studio was a wonderful piece of luck. Some
people--and he shook his head meditatively.

"Well," said Eugene, coming back after some final touches to his
appearance, "what do you think of it, Peter?"

"You're certainly moving along, Eugene. I never expected to see it. You
ought to praise God. You're plain lucky."

Eugene smiled enigmatically. He was wondering whether he was. Neither
Smite nor MacHugh nor anyone could dream of the conditions under which
this came about. What a sham the world was anyhow. It's surface
appearances so ridiculously deceptive! If anyone had known of the
apparent necessity when he first started to look for an apartment, of
his own mood toward it!

Marietta came back, and Angela. The latter had taken kindly to both
these men, or boys as she already considered them. Eugene had a talent
for reducing everybody to "simply folks," as he called them. So these
two capable and talented men were mere country boys like himself--and
Angela caught his attitude.

"I'd like to have you let me make a sketch of you some day, Mrs. Witla,"
MacHugh said to Angela when she came back to the fire. He was essaying
portraiture as a side line and he was anxious for good opportunities to
practice.

Angela thrilled at the invitation, and the use of her new name,
Mrs. W