is one single
west window gave him a view of all this life. About the corner in
Twenty-third Street, in another somewhat decayed residence, was a
moderate priced restaurant and boarding house. Here he could get a meal
for twenty-five cents. He cared nothing for the life that was about him.
It was cheap, poor, from a money point of view, dingy, but he would not
be here forever he hoped. These people did not know him. Besides the
number 552 West 24th Street did not sound bad. It might be one of the
old neighborhoods with which New York was dotted, and which artists were
inclined to find and occupy.

After he had secured this room from a semi-respectable Irish landlady, a
dock weigher's wife, he decided to call upon M. Charles. He knew that he
looked quite respectable as yet, despite his poverty and decline. His
clothes were good, his overcoat new, his manner brisk and determined.
But what he could not see was that his face in its thin sallowness, and
his eyes with their semi-feverish lustre bespoke a mind that was
harassed by trouble of some kind. He stood outside the office of Kellner
and Son in Fifth Avenue--a half block from the door, wondering whether
he should go in, and just what he should say. He had written to M.
Charles from time to time that his health was bad and that he couldn't
work--always that he hoped to be better soon. He had always hoped that a
reply would come that another of his pictures had been sold. One year
had gone and then two, and now a third was under way and still he was
not any better. M. Charles would look at him searchingly. He would have
to bear his gaze unflinchingly. In his present nervous state this was
difficult and yet he was not without a kind of defiance even now. He
would force himself back into favor with life sometime.

He finally mustered up his courage and entered and M. Charles greeted
him warmly.

"This certainly is good,--to see you again. I had almost given up hope
that you would ever come back to New York. How is your health now? And
how is Mrs. Witla? It doesn't seem as though it had been three years.
You're looking excellent. And how is painting going now? Getting to the
point where you can do something again?"

Eugene felt for the moment as though M. Charles believed him to be in
excellent condition, whereas that shrewd observer of men was wondering
what could have worked so great a change. Eugene appeared to be eight
years older. There were marked wrinkles between