ay. "I thought they were pretty good but I wasn't sure. I'm
very grateful to you."

"You need not feel gratitude toward me," returned M. Charles, now
modifying his formal manner. "You can congratulate yourself--your art. I
am honored, as I tell you. We will make a fine display of them. You have
no frames for these? Well, never mind, I will lend you frames."

He smiled and shook Eugene's hand and congratulated Angela. She had
listened to this address with astonishment and swelling pride. She had
perceived, despite Eugene's manner, the anxiety he was feeling, the
intense hopes he was building on the outcome of this meeting. M.
Charles' opening manner had deceived her. She had felt that he did not
care so much after all, and that Eugene was going to be disappointed.
Now, when this burst of approval came, she hardly knew what to make of
it. She looked at Eugene and saw that he was intensely moved by not only
a sense of relief, but pride and joy. His pale, dark face showed it. To
see this load of care taken off him whom she loved so deeply was enough
to unsettle Angela. She found herself stirred in a pathetic way and now,
when M. Charles turned to her, tears welled to her eyes.

"Don't cry, Mrs. Witla," he said grandly on seeing this. "You have a
right to be proud of your husband. He is a great artist. You should take
care of him."

"Oh, I'm so happy," half-laughed and half-sobbed Angela, "I can't help
it."

She went over to where Eugene was and put her face against his coat.
Eugene slipped his arm about her and smiled sympathetically.
M. Charles smiled also, proud of the effect of his words. "You both have
a right to feel very happy," he said.

"Little Angela!" thought Eugene. This was your true wife for you, your
good woman. Her husband's success meant all to her. She had no life of
her own--nothing outside of him and his good fortune.

M. Charles smiled. "Well, I will be going now," he said finally. "I will
send for the pictures when the time comes. And meanwhile you two must
come with me to dinner. I will let you know."

He bowed himself out with many assurances of good will, and then Angela
and Eugene looked at each other.

"Oh, isn't it lovely, Honeybun," she cried, half giggling, half crying.
(She had begun to call him Honeybun the first day they were married.)
"My Eugene a great artist. He said it was a great honor! Isn't that
lovely? And all the world is going to know it soon, now. Isn't that
fine! Oh dea