retly or openly, if he could not keep all their transactions a secret
from the world, he was inclined to hesitate. He did not want to do
anything rash--as much for her sake as for his. In this case, the fact
that he could not marry her, that he could not reasonably run away with
her, seeing that he was mentally sick and of uncertain financial
condition, the fact that he was surrounded by home conditions which made
it of the greatest importance that he should conduct himself
circumspectly, weighed greatly with him. Nevertheless a tragedy could
easily have resulted here. If Frieda had been of a headstrong,
unthinking nature; if Angela had been less watchful, morbid, appealing
in her mood; if the family and town conditions had been less weighty; if
Eugene had had health and ample means, he would probably have deserted
Angela, taken Frieda to some European city--he dreamed of Paris in this
connection--and found himself confronted later by an angry father or a
growing realization that Frieda's personal charms were not the sum and
substance of his existence, or both. George Roth, for all he was a
traveling salesman, was a man of considerable determination. He might
readily have ended the life of his daughter's betrayer--art reputation
or no. He worshiped Frieda as the living image of his dead wife, and at
best he would have been heartbroken.

As it was, there was not much chance of this, for Eugene was not rash.
He was too philosophic. Conditions might have arisen in which he would
have shown the most foolhardy bravado, but not in his present state.
There was not sufficient anguish in his own existence to drive him to
action. He saw no clear way. So, in June, with Angela he took his
departure for Blackwood, pretending, to her, outward indifference as to
his departure, but inwardly feeling as though his whole life were coming
to nothing.

When he reached Blackwood he was now, naturally, disgusted with the
whole atmosphere of it. Frieda was not there. Alexandria, from having
been the most wearisome sidepool of aimless inactivity, had suddenly
taken on all the characteristics of paradise. The little lakes, the
quiet streets, the court house square, his sister's home, Frieda's home,
his own home, had been once more invested for him with the radiance of
romance--that intangible glory of feeling which can have no existence
outside the illusion of love. Frieda's face was everywhere in it, her
form, the look of her eyes. He could se