transfer me if I write to him. He said
he would. I'd rather be outside with some section gang if I could. It's
going to be very dreary in the shop when they close it up."

"Well, if you're tired you'd better," replied Angela. "Your mind needs
diversion, I know that. Why don't you write to Mr. Haverford?"

"I will," he said, but he did not immediately. He went into the front
room and lit the gas eventually, reading a paper, then a book, then
yawning wearily. Angela came in after a time and sat down pale and
tired. She went and secured a little workbasket in which were socks
undarned and other odds and ends and began on those, but she revolted at
the thought of doing anything for him and put them up. She got out a
skirt of hers which she was making. Eugene watched her a little while
lazily, his artistic eye measuring the various dimensions of her
features. She had a well-balanced face, he finally concluded. He noted
the effect of the light on her hair--the peculiar hue it gave it--and
wondered if he could get that in oil. Night scenes were harder than
those of full daylight. Shadows were so very treacherous. He got up
finally.

"Well, I'm going to turn in," he said. "I'm tired. I have to get up at
six. Oh, dear, this darn day labor business gives me a pain. I wish it
were over."

Angela did not trust herself to speak. She was so full of pain and
despair that she thought if she spoke she would cry. He went out,
saying: "Coming soon?" She nodded her head. When he was gone the storm
burst and she broke into a blinding flood of tears. They were not only
tears of sorrow, but of rage and helplessness. She went out on a little
balcony which was there and cried alone, the night lights shining
wistfully about. After the first storm she began to harden and dry up
again, for helpless tears were foreign to her in a rage. She dried her
eyes and became white-faced and desperate as before.

The dog, the scoundrel, the brute, the hound! she thought. How could she
ever have loved him? How could she love him now? Oh, the horror of life,
its injustice, its cruelty, its shame! That she should be dragged
through the mire with a man like this. The pity of it! The shame! If
this was art, death take it! And yet hate him as she might--hate this
hellish man-trap who signed herself "Ashes of Roses"--she loved him,
too. She could not help it. She knew she loved him. Oh, to be crossed by
two fevers like this! Why might she not die? Why not die,