terrible revelation. All at once, because he manoeuvred himself
into a suitable position and because she herself was weary of fighting
and crying, and because she was longing for sympathy, she allowed
herself to be pulled into his arms, her head to his shoulder, and there
she cried more copiously than ever. Eugene for the moment felt terribly
grieved. He was really sorry for her. It wasn't right. He ought to be
ashamed of himself. He should never have done anything like that.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "really I am. Won't you forgive me?"

"Oh, I don't know what to do! what to think!" moaned Angela after a
time.

"Please do, Angela," he urged, holding her questioningly.

There was more of this pleading and emotional badgering until finally
out of sheer exhaustion Angela said yes. Eugene's nerves were worn to a
thread by the encounter. He was pale, exhausted, distraught. Many scenes
like this, he thought, would set him crazy; and still he had to go
through a world of petting and love-making even now. It was not easy to
bring her back to her normal self. It was bad business, this
philandering, he thought. It seemed to lead to all sorts of misery for
him, and Angela was jealous. Dear Heaven! what a wrathful, vicious,
contentious nature she had when she was aroused. He had never suspected
that. How could he truly love her when she acted like that? How could he
sympathize with her? He recalled how she sneered at him--how she taunted
him with Christina's having discarded him. He was weary, excited,
desirous of rest and sleep, but now he must make more love. He fondled
her, and by degrees she came out of her blackest mood; but he was not
really forgiven even then. He was just understood better. And she was
not truly happy again but only hopeful--and watchful.

CHAPTER XII

Spring, summer and fall came and went with Eugene and Angela first in
Alexandria and then in Blackwood. In suffering this nervous breakdown
and being compelled to leave New York, Eugene missed some of the finest
fruits of his artistic efforts, for M. Charles, as well as a number of
other people, were interested in him and were prepared to entertain him
in an interesting and conspicuous way. He could have gone out a great
deal, but his mental state was such that he was poor company for anyone.
He was exceedingly morbid, inclined to discuss gloomy subjects, to look
on life as exceedingly sad and to believe that people generally were
evil. Lust,