s, but not wholly reassuring. They must save money; that was her
one cry. They had to move soon, that was very plain, but they mustn't
spend any more than they had to. She delayed until the attitude of
Summerfield, upon an accidental visit to their flat, made it
commercially advisable.

Summerfield was a great admirer of Eugene's artistic ability. He had
never seen any of his pictures, but he was rather keen to, and once when
Eugene told him that they were still on display, one or two of them at
Pottle Freres, Jacob Bergman's and Henry LaRue's, he decided to visit
these places, but put it off. One night when he was riding uptown on the
L road with Eugene he decided because he was in a vagrom mood to
accompany him home and see his pictures there. Eugene did not want this.
He was chagrined to be compelled to take him into their very little
apartment, but there was apparently no way of escaping it. He tried to
persuade him to visit Pottle Freres instead, where one picture was still
on view, but Summerfield would none of that.

"I don't like you to see this place," finally he said apologetically, as
they were going up the steps of the five-story apartment house. "We are
going to get out of here pretty soon. I came here when I worked on the
road."

Summerfield looked about at the poor neighborhood, the inlet of a canal
some two blocks east where a series of black coal pockets were and to
the north where there was flat open country and a railroad yard.

"Why, that's all right," he said, in his direct, practical way. "It
doesn't make any difference to me. It does to you, though, Witla. You
know, I believe in spending money, everybody spending money. Nobody gets
anywhere by saving anything. Pay out! Pay out--that's the idea. I found
that out for myself long ago. You'd better move when you get a chance
soon and surround yourself with clever people."

Eugene considered this the easy talk of a man who was successful and
lucky, but he still thought there was much in it. Summerfield came in
and viewed the pictures. He liked them, and he liked Angela, though he
wondered how Eugene ever came to marry her. She was such a quiet little
home body. Eugene looked more like a Bohemian or a club man now that he
had been worked upon by Summerfield. The soft hat had long since been
discarded for a stiff derby, and Eugene's clothes were of the most
practical business type he could find. He looked more like a young
merchant than an artist. S