s
time. Eugene lived in fear lest Angela should become aware of any of
these visits. He thought he could not tell her because in the first
place she would resent his not having taken her with him; and in the
next, if he had proposed it first, she would have objected, or set
another date, or asked pointless questions. He liked the liberty of
going where he pleased, saying nothing, not feeling it necessary to say
anything. He longed for the freedom of his old pre-matrimonial days.
Just at this time, because he could not work artistically and because he
was in need of diversion and of joyous artistic palaver, he was
especially miserable. Life seemed very dark and ugly.

Eugene, returning and feeling, as usual, depressed about his state,
sought to find consolation in her company. He came in at one o'clock,
their usual lunch hour, and finding Angela still working, said, "George!
but you like to keep at things when you get started, don't you? You're a
regular little work-horse. Having much trouble?"

"No-o," replied Angela, dubiously.

Eugene noted the tone of her voice. He thought she was not very strong
and this packing was getting on her nerves. Fortunately there were only
some trunks to look after, for the vast mass of their housekeeping
materials belonged to the studio. Still no doubt she was weary.

"Are you very tired?" he asked.

"No-o," she replied.

"You look it," he said, slipping his arm about her. Her face, which he
turned up with his hand, was pale and drawn.

"It isn't anything physical," she replied, looking away from him in a
tragic way. "It's just my heart. It's here!" and she laid her hand over
her heart.

"What's the matter now?" he asked, suspecting something emotional,
though for the life of him he could not imagine what. "Does your heart
hurt you?"

"It isn't my real heart," she returned, "it's just my mind, my feelings;
though I don't suppose they ought to matter."

"What's the matter now, Angel-face," he persisted, for he was sorry for
her. This emotional ability of hers had the power to move him. It might
have been acting, or it might not have been. It might be either a real
or a fancied woe;--in either case it was real to her. "What's come up?"
he continued. "Aren't you just tired? Suppose we quit this and go out
somewhere and get something to eat. You'll feel better."

"No, I couldn't eat," she replied. "I'll stop now and get your lunch,
but I don't want anything."

"Oh, what's the