, wondering what sort of a life she led, for from various bits
of conversation he overheard not only at table but at other times he
judged she was fairly well to do. There was an apartment in Central Park
West, card parties, automobile parties, theatre parties and a general
sense of people--acquaintances anyhow, who were making money. He heard
her tell of a mining engineer, Dr. Rowland; of a successful coal-mining
speculator, Gerald Woods; of a Mrs. Hale who was heavily interested in
copper mines and apparently very wealthy. "It's a pity Norman couldn't
connect with something like that and make some real money," he heard her
say to her mother one evening. He understood that Norman was her husband
and that he probably would be back soon. So he kept his
distance--interested and curious but hardly more.

Mrs. Wilson was not so easily baffled, however. A car appeared one
evening at the door immediately after dinner, a great red touring car,
and Mrs. Wilson announced easily, "We're going for a little spin after
dinner, Mr. Witla. Don't you want to come along?"

Eugene had never ridden in an automobile at that time. "I'd be very
pleased," he said, for the thought of a lonely evening in an empty house
had sprung up when he saw it appear.

There was a chauffeur in charge--a gallant figure in a brown straw cap
and tan duster, but Mrs. Wilson manoeuvred for place.

"You sit with the driver, coz," she said to Simpson, and when her mother
stepped in she followed after, leaving Eugene the place to the right of
her.

"There must be a coat and cap in the locker," she said to the chauffeur;
"let Mr. Witla have it."

The latter extracted a spare linen coat and straw cap which Eugene put
on.

"I like automobiling, don't you?" she said to Eugene good-naturedly.
"It's so refreshing. If there is any rest from care on this earth it's
in traveling fast."

"I've never ridden before," replied Eugene simply. Something about the
way he said it touched her. She felt sorry for him because he appeared
lonely and gloomy. His indifference to her piqued her curiosity and
irritated her pride. Why shouldn't he take an interest in her? As they
sped under leafy lanes, up hill and down dale, she made out his face in
the starlight. It was pale, reflective, indifferent. "These deep
thinkers!" she chided him. "It's terrible to be a philosopher." Eugene
smiled.

When they reached home he went to his room as did all the others to
theirs. He stepped o