The Smart Set/Volume 61/Issue 4/Coming, Eden Bower!

ON HEDGER had lived for four years on the top floor of an old house on the south side of Washington Square, and nobody had ever disturbed him. He occupied one big room with no outside exposure except on the north, where he had built in a many-paned studio window that looked upon a court and upon the roofs and walls of other buildings.

His room was very cheerless, since he never got a ray of direct sunlight; the south corners were always in shadow. In one of these corners was a clothes closet, built against the partition; in another a wide divan, serving as a seat by day and a bed by night. In the front corner, the one farther from the window, was a sink, and a table with two gas burners, where he sometimes cooked his food. There, too, in the perpetual dusk, was the dog's bed, and often a bone or two for his comfort.

The dog was a Boston bull terrier, and Hedger explained his surly disposition by the fact that he had been bred to the point where it told on his nerves. His name was Cæsar III., and he had taken prizes at very exclusive dog shows. When he and his master went out to prowl about University Place or to promenade along West Street, Cæsar III. was invariably fresh and shining. His pink skin showed through his mottled coat, which glistened as if it had just been rubbed with olive oil, and he wore a brass-studded collar, bought at the smartest saddler's. Hedger, as often as not, was hunched up in an old striped blanket coat, with a shapeless felt hat pulled over his bushy hair, wearing black shoes that had become gray, or brown ones that had become black, and he never put on gloves unless the day was biting cold.

Early in May, Hedger learned that he was to have a new neighbour in the rear apartment—two rooms, one large and one small, that faced the west. His studio was shut off from the larger of these rooms by double doors which, though they were fairly tight, left him a good deal at the mercy of the occupant.

The rooms had been leased, long before he came there, by a trained nurse who considered herself knowing in old furniture. She went to auction sales and bought up mahogany and dirty brass and stored it away here, where she meant to live when she retired from nursing. Meanwhile, she sub-let her rooms, with their precious furniture, to young people who came to New York to write or to paint—who proposed to live by the sweat of the brow rather than of the hand, and who desired artistic surroundings. When Hedger first moved in, these rooms were occupied by a young man who tried to write plays, and who had kept on trying until a week ago, when the nurse had put him out for unpaid rent.

A few days after the playwright left, Hedger heard an ominous murmur of voices through the bolted double doors; the lady-like intonation of the nurse—doubtless exhibiting her treasures—and another voice, also a woman's, but very different; young, fresh, unguarded, confident. All the same, it would be very annoying to have a woman in there. The only bath-room on the floor was at the top of the stairs in the front hall, and he would always be running into her as he came or went from his bath. He would have to be more careful to see that Cæsar didn't leave bones around the hall, too; and she might object when he cooked steak and onions on his gas burner.

As soon as the talking ceased and the woman left, he forgot them. He was absorbed in a picture of paradise fish at the Aquarium, staring out at people through the glass and green water of their tank. It was a highly gratifying idea; the incommunicability of one stratum of animal life with another—though Hedger pretended it was only an experiment in unusual lighting. When he heard trunks knocking against the sides of the narrow hall, then he realized that she was moving in at once.

Toward noon, groans and deep gasps and the creaking of ropes made him aware that a piano was arriving. After the tramp of the movers died away down the stairs, somebody touched off a few scales and chords on the instrument, and then there was peace. Presently he heard her lock her door and go down the hall humming something; going out to lunch, probably. He stuck his brushes in a can of turpentine and put on his hat, not stopping to wash his hands. Cæsar was smelling along the crack under the bolted doors; his bony tail stuck out hard as a hickory withe and the hair was standing up about his elegant collar.

Hedger encouraged him. “Come along, Cæsar. You'll soon get used to a new aroma.”

In the hall stood an enormous trunk, behind the ladder that led to the roof, just opposite Hedger's door. The dog flew at it with a growl of hurt amazement. They went down three flights of stairs and out into the brilliant May afternoon.

Behind the Square, Hedger and his dog descended into a basement oyster house where there were no tablecloths on the tables and no handles on the coffee cups, and the floor was covered with sawdust, and Cæsar was always welcome—not that he needed any such precautionary flooring. All the carpets of Persia would have been safe for him. Hedger ordered steak and onions absent-mindedly, not realizing why he had an apprehension that this dish might be less readily at hand hereafter. While he ate, Cæsar sat beside his chair, gravely disturbing the sawdust with his tail.

After lunch, Hedger strolled about the Square for the dog's health and watched the stages pull out; that was almost the very last summer of the old horse stages on Fifth Avenue. The fountain had but lately begun operations for the season and was throwing up a mist of rainbow water which now and then blew south and sprayed a bunch of Italian babies who were being held up on the outer rim by older, very little older, brothers and sisters. Plump robins were hopping about on the soil; the grass was newly cut and blindingly green. Looking up the Avenue, through the Arch, one could see the young poplars with their fresh, bright, unsmoked leaves, and the Brevoort glistening in its spring coat of paint, and shining horses and carriages—occasionally an automobile, misshapen and sullen, like an ugly threat in a stream. of things that were bright and beautiful and alive.

While Cæsar and his master were standing by the fountain, a girl approached them, crossing the Square. Hedger noticed her because she wore a lavender cloth suit and carried in her arms a big bunch of fresh lilacs. He saw that she was young and handsome—beautiful, in fact, with a splendid figure and good action. She, too, paused by the fountain and looked back through the Arch up the Avenue. She smiled rather patronizingly as she looked, and at the same time seemed delighted. Her slowly curving upper lip and half-closed eyes seemed to say:

“You're gay, you're exciting, you are quite the right sort of thing; but you're none too fine for me!”

In the moment she tarried, Cæsar stealthily approached her and sniffed at the hem of her lavender skirt, then, when she went south like an arrow, he ran back to his master and lifted a face full of emotion and alarm, his lower lip twitching under his sharp white teeth and his hazel eyes pointed with a very definite discovery. He stood thus, motionless, while Hedger watched the lavender girl go up the steps and through the door of the house in which he lived.

“You're right, my boy, it's she! She might be worse looking, you know.”

When they mounted to the studio, the new lodger's door at the back of the hall was a little ajar, and Hedger caught the warm perfume of lilacs just brought in out of the sun. He was used to the musty smell of the old hall carpet. (The nurse-lessee had once knocked at his studio door and complained that Cæsar must be somewhat responsible for the particular flavour of that mustiness, and Hedger had never spoken to her since.) He was used to the old smell, and he preferred it to that of lilacs, and so did his companion, whose nose was so much more discriminating. Hedger shut his door vehemently, and fell to work.

Most young men who dwell in obscure studios in New York have had a beginning, come out of something, have somewhere a home town, a family, a paternal roof. But Don Hedger had no such background. He was a foundling, and had grown up in a school for homeless boys, where book-learning was a negligible part of the curriculum. When he was sixteen, a Catholic priest took him to Greensburg, Pennsylvania, to keep house for him. The priest did something to fill in the large gaps in the boy's education—taught him to like Don Quixote and The Golden Legend, and encouraged him to mess with paints and crayons in his room up under the slope of the mansard.

When Don wanted to go to New York to study at the Art League, the priest got him a night job as a packer in one of the big department stores. Since then, Hedger had taken care of himself; that was his only responsibility. He was singularly unencumbered; had no family duties, no social ties, no obligations toward anyone but his landlord. Since he travelled light, he had travelled rather far. He had got over a good deal of the earth's surface, in spite of the fact that he never in his life had more than three hundred dollars ahead at any one time, and he had already outlived a succession of convictions and revelations about his art.

Though he was now but twenty-six years old, he had twice been the verge of becoming a marketable product; once through some studies of New York streets he did for a magazine, and once through a collection of pastels he brought home from New Mexico, which Remington, then a great man in American art, happened to see and generously tried to push. But on both occasions Hedger decided that this was something he didn't wish to carry further—simply the old thing over again and got nowhere—so he took enquiring dealers something in a “later manner,” and they put him out of the shop. When he ran short of money he could always get any amount of commercial work because he was an expert draughtsman and worked with lightning speed. The rest of his time he spent in groping his way from one kind of painting into another, or travelling about without luggage, like a tramp, and he was chiefly occupied with getting rid of ideas he had once thought very fine.

Hedger's circumstances, since he had moved to Washington Square, were affluent compared to anything he had ever known before. He was now able to pay advance rent and turn the key on his studio when he went away for four months at a stretch. It didn't occur to him to wish to be richer than this. To be sure, he did without a great many things that other people think necessary, but he didn't miss them because he had never had them. He belonged to no clubs, visited no houses, had no studio friends, and he ate his dinner alone in some decent little restaurant, even on Christmas and New Years. For days together he talked to nobody but his dog and the janitress and the lame oysterman.

After he shut the door and settled down to his paradise fish on that first Tuesday in May, Hedger forgot all about his new neighbour. When the light failed, he took Cæsar out for a walk. On the way home he did his marketing on West Houston street, with a one-eyed Italian woman he knew. After he had cooked his beans and scallopini, and drunk half a bottle of Chianti, he put his dishes in the sink and went up on the roof to smoke. He was the only person in the house who ever went to the roof, and he had a secret understanding with the janitress about it. He was to have “the privilege of the roof” as she said, if he opened the heavy trapdoor on sunny days to air out the upper hall, and was watchful to close it when rain threatened. Mrs. Foley was fat and dirty and hated to climb stairs—besides, the roof was reached by a perpendicular iron ladder, definitely inaccessible to a woman of her bulk, and the iron door at the top of it was too heavy for any but Hedger's strong arm to lift. Hedger was not above medium height, but he practised with weights and dumbbells and in the shoulders he was as strong as a gorilla.

So Hedger had the roof to himself. He and Cæsar often slept up there on hot nights, rolled in blankets he had brought home from Arizona. He mounted with Cæsar under his left arm. The dog had never learned to climb a perpendicular ladder, and never did he feel so much his master's greatness and his own dependence upon him as when he crept under his arm for this perilous ascent. Up there was even gravel to scratch in, and a dog could do whatever he liked so long as he did not bark. It was a kind of Heaven, which no one was strong enough to reach but his great, paint-smelling master.

On this blue May night there was a slender, girlish-looking young moon in the west, playing with a whole company of silver stars. Now and then one of them darted away from the group and shot off into the gauzy blue with a soft trail of light, like laughter. Hedger and his dog were delighted when a star did this. They were quite lost in watching the glittering game, when they were suddenly diverted by a sound—not from the stars, though it was music. It was not the prologue to “Pagliacci,” which rose ever and anon on hot evenings from an Italian tenement on Thompson street, with the gasps of the corpulent baritone who got behind it; nor was it the hurdy-gurdy man, who often played at the corner if the balmy twilight. No, this was a woman's voice, singing the tempestuous, overlapping phrases of Signor Puccini, then comparatively new in the world, but already so popular that even Hedger recognized his unmistakable gusts of breath.

He looked about over the roofs; all was blue and still, with the well-built chimneys that were never used now standing up dark and mournful. He moved softly toward the yellow quadrangle where the gas from the hall shone up through the half-lifted trap-door. Oh, yes! It came up through the hole like a strong draught, a big, beautiful voice, and it sounded rather like a professional's. A piano had come in the morning, Hedger remembered. This might be a very great nuisance. It would be pleasant enough to listen to if you could turn it on and off as you wished; but you couldn't. Cæsar, with the gas light shining up on his collar and his ugly but sensitive face, panted and looked up for information. Hedger put down a reassuring hand.

“I don't know. We can't tell yet. It may not be so bad.”

He stayed on the roof until all was still below, and finally descended with quite a new feeling about his neighbour. Her voice, like her figure, inspired respect—if one did not choose to call it admiration. Her door was shut, the transom was dark; nothing remained of her but the obtrusive trunk, unrightfully taking up room in the narrow hall.

two days Hedger didn't see her. He was painting eight hours a day just then, and only went out to hunt for food. He noticed that she practised scales and exercises for about an hour in the morning. Then she locked her door, went humming down the hall, and left him in peace. He heard her getting her coffee ready at about the same time he got his. Earlier still, she passed his room on her way to her bath. In the evening she sometimes sang, but on the whole she didn't bother him.

When he was working well he did not notice anything much. The morning paper lay before his door until he reached out for his milk bottle, then he kicked the sheet inside and it lay on the floor until evening. Sometimes he read it and sometimes he did not. He forgot there was anything of importance going on in the world outside of his third floor studio. Nobody had ever taught him that he ought to be interested in other people; in the Pittsburgh steel strike, in the Fresh Air Fund, in the scandal about the Babies' Hospital. A gray wolf, living in a Wyoming canyon, would hardly have been less concerned about these things than was Don Hedger.

One morning he was coming out of the bathroom at the front end of the hall, having just given Cæsar his bath and rubbed him into a glow with a heavy towel. Before the door, lying in wait for him as it were, stood a tall figure in a flowing blue silk dressing gown that fell away from her marble arms. In her hands she carried various accessories of the bath.

“TIT wish,” she said distinctly, standing in his way, “I wish you wouldn't wash your dog in the tub. I never heard of such a thing! I've found his hair in the tub, and I've smelled a doggy smell, and now I've caught you at it. It's an outrage!”

Hedger was badly frightened. She was so tall and positive, and was fairly blazing with beauty and anger. He stood blinking, holding on to his sponge and dog-soap, feeling that he ought to bow very low to her. But what he actually said was:

“Nobody has ever objected before. I always wash the tub—and, anyhow, he's cleaner than most people.”

“Cleaner than me?” her eyebrows went up, her white arms and neck and her fragrant person seemed to scream at him like a band of outraged nymphs. Something flashed through his mind about a man who was turned into a dog, or was pursued by dogs, because he unwittingly intruded upon the bath of beauty.

“No, I didn't mean that,” he muttered, turning scarlet under the bluish stubble of his muscular jaws. “But I know he's cleaner than I am.”

“That I don't doubt!” Her voice sounded like a shaft shivering of crystal, and with a smile of pity she drew the folds of her voluminous blue robe against the wall and allowed the wretched man to pass. Even Cæsar was frightened; he darted like a streak down the hall, through the door and to his own bed in the corner among the bones.

Hedger stood still in the doorway, listening to indignant sniffs and coughs and a great swishing of water about the sides of the tub. He had washed it; but as he had washed it with Cæsar's sponge, it was quite possible that a few bristles remained; the dog was shedding now. The playwright had never objected, nor had the jovial illustrator who occupied the front apartment—but he, as he admitted, “was usually pie-eyed, when he wasn't in Buffalo.” He went home to Buffalo sometimes to rest his nerves.

It had never occurred to Hedger that anyone would mind using the tub after Cæsar—but then, he had never seen a beautiful girl caparisoned for the bath before. As soon as he beheld her standing there, he realized the unfitness of it. For that matter, she ought not to step into a tub that any other mortal had bathed in; the illustrator was sloppy and left cigarette ends on the moulding.

All morning as he worked he was gnawed by a spiteful desire to get back at her. It rankled that he had been so vanquished by her disdain. When he heard her locking her door to go out for lunch, he stepped quickly into the hall in his messy painting coat, and addressed her.

“I don't wish to be exigent, Miss”—he had certain grand words that he used upon occasion—“but if this is your trunk, it's rather in the way here.”

“Oh, very well!” she exclaimed carelessly, dropping her keys into her handbag. “I'll have it moved when I can get a man to do it,” and she went down the hall with her free, roving stride.

Her name, Hedger discovered from her letters, which the postman left on the table in the lower hall, was Eden Bower.

the closet that was built against the partition separating his room from Miss Bower's, Hedger kept all his wearing apparel, some of it on hooks and hangers, some of it on the floor. When he opened his closet door nowadays, little dust-coloured insects flew out on downy wing, and he suspected that a brood of moths were hatching in his winter overcoat. Mrs. Foley, the janitress, told him to bring down all his heavy clothes and she would give them a beating and hang them in the court. The closet was in such disorder that he shunned the encounter, but one hot afternoon he set himself to the task.

First he threw out a pile of forgotten laundry and tied it up in a sheet. The bundle stood as high as his middle when he had knotted the corners. Then he got his shoes and overshoes together. When he took his overcoat from its place against the partition, a long ray of yellow light shot across the dark enclosure, a knothole, evidently in the high wainscoting of the west room. He had never noticed it before and without realizing what he was doing, he stooped and squinted through it.

Yonder, in a pool of sunlight, stood his new neighbour, clad in a pink chiffon cloud of some sort, doing gymnastic exercises before a long gilt mirror. Hedger did not think how unpardonable it was of him to watch her. A woman in negligée was not an improper object to a man who had worked so much from unclad models, and he continued to look simply because, except in old sculpture, he had never seen a human body so beautiful as this one—positively glorious in action. As she swung her arms and changed from one pivot of motion to another, muscular energy seemed to flow through her from her toes to her finger-tips. The soft flush of exercise and the gold of the afternoon sun played over her together, enveloped her in a luminous mist which, as she turned and twisted, made now an arm, now a shoulder, dissolve in pure light and instantly recover its outline with the next gesture.

Hedger's fingers curved as if he were holding a crayon; mentally he was doing the whole figure in a single running line, and the charcoal seemed to explode in his hand at the point where the energy of each gesture was discharged into the whirling disc of light.

He could not have told whether he watched her for six minutes or sixteen. When her gymnastics were over, she paused to catch up a lock of hair that had come down; then, with her hand on her hip, she walked unconcernedly across the room and disappeared through the door into her bedchamber.

Disappeared—Don Hedger was staring at the golden shower which poured in through the west windows, at the lake of gold on the faded Turkish carpet. The spot seemed enchanted; as if a vision out of Alexandria, out of the remote pagan past, had bathed itself there in Helianthine fire.

When he crawled out of his closet he stood blinking at the gray sheet stuffed with laundry. He felt a little sick as he contemplated the bundle. Everything here was different; he hated the disorder of the place, the gray prison light, his old shoes and himself and all his slovenly habits. The black calico curtains that ran on wires over his big window were white with dust. There were three frying pans in the sink, and the sink itself—. He felt desperate. He couldn't stand this another minute. He took up an armful of winter clothes and ran down four flights into the basement.

“Mrs. Foley,” he began, “I want my room cleaned this afternoon, thoroughly cleaned. Can you get a woman for me right away?”

“Is it company you're having?” “the fat, dirty janitress inquired. Mrs. Foley was the widow of a useful Tammany man, and she owned real estate in Flatbush. She was huge and soft as a feather bed. Her face and arms were permanently coated with dust, grained like wood where the perspiration had trickled.

“Yes, company. That's it.”

“Well, this is a queer time of the day to be asking for a cleaning woman. It's likely I can get you old Lizzie, if she's not drunk. I'll send Willy round to see.”

Willy, the son of fourteen, roused from the stupor and stain of his third box of cigarettes by the gleam of a quarter, went out. In five minutes he returned with old Lizzie—she smelling strong of spirits and wearing several jackets which she had put on one over the other, and a number of skirts, long and short, which made her resemble an animated dish-clout.

She had, of course, to borrow her equipment from Mrs. Foley, and toiled up the long flights, dragging mop and pail and broom. She told Hedger to be of good cheer, for he had got the right woman for the job, and showed him a great leather strap she wore about her wrist to prevent dislocation of tendons. She swished about the place, scattering dust and splashing soapsuds, while he watched her in nervous despair. He stood over Lizzie and made her scour the sink, directing her roughly, then paid her and got rid of her. Shutting the door on his failure, he hurried off with his dog to lose himself among the stevedores and dock labourers on West Street.

A strange chapter began for Don Hedger. Day after day, at that hour in the afternoon, the hour before his neighbour dressed for dinner, he crouched in his closet to watch her go through with her mysterious exercises. It did not occur to him that his conduct was detestable; there was nothing shy or retreating about this girl—and these gymnastics had clearly a public purpose, were a part of her preparation for the stage.

Hedger scarcely regarded his action as conduct at all; it was something that had happened to him. More than once he went out and tried to stay away for the whole afternoon, but at about five o'clock he was sure to find himself among his old shoes in the dark. The pull of that aperture was stronger than his will—and he had always considered his will the strongest thing about him. When she threw herself upon the divan and lay resting, he still stared, holding his breath. His nerves were so on edge that a sudden noise made him start. The dog would come and tug at his sleeve, knowing that something was wrong with his master. If he attempted a mournful whine, those strong hands closed about his throat.

When Hedger came out of his closet, he sat down on the edge of the couch, sat for hours without moving. He was not painting at all now. This thing, whatever it was, drank him up as ideas had sometimes done, and he sank into a stupor of idleness as deep and dark as the stupor of work. He could not understand it; he was no boy, he had worked from models for years, and the beauty of women had disturbed him little more than any other form of beauty. Yet now his brain held but one image—vibrated, burned with it.

Women had come and gone in Hedger's life. Not having had a mother to begin with, his relations with them, whether amorous or friendly, had been casual. He got on well with janitresses and wash-women, with Indians and with the peasant women of foreign countries. He had friends among the shirtwaist factory girls who came to eat their lunch in Washington Square, and he sometimes took a model for a day into the country. He felt an unreasoning antipathy toward the well-dressed women he saw coming out of big shops, or driving in the Park. If, on his way to the Art Museum, he noticed a pretty girl standing on the steps of one of the houses in upper Fifth Avenue, he frowned at her and went by with his shoulders hunched up as if he were cold. He had never known such girls, or heard them talk, or seen the inside of the houses in which they lived; but he believed them all to be artificial and, in an æsthetic sense, perverted. He saw them enslaved by desire of merchandise and manufactured articles, effective only in making life complicated and insincere and in embroidering it with ugly and meaningless trivialities. They were enough, he thought, to make one almost forget woman as she existed in art, in thought and in the universe.

He had no desire to know the woman who had, for the time at least, so broken up his life, no curiosity about her everyday personality. He shunned any revelation of it, and he listened for Miss Bower's coming and going not to encounter but to avoid her. He wished that the girl who wore shirtwaists and got letters from Chicago would keep out of his way, that she did not exist. With her he had nought to make. But in a room full of sun, before an old mirror, on a little enchanted rug of sleeping colours, he had seen a woman emerge and give herself up to the primitve [sic] poetry of motion. And for him she had no geographical associations; unless with Crete, or Alexandria, or Veronese's Venice. She was the immortal conception, the perennial theme.

The first break in Hedger's lethargy occurred one afternoon when two young men came to take Eden Bower out to dine. They went into her music room, laughed and talked for a few minutes, and then took her away with them. They were gone a long while, but he did not go out for food himself; he waited for them to come back. At last he heard them coming down the hall, gayer and more talkative than when they left. One of them sat down at the piano, and they all began to sing. This Hedger found absolutely unendurable. He snatched up his hat and went running down the stairs. Cæsar leaped beside him, hoping that old times were coming back.

They had supper in the oysterman's basement and then sat down in front of their own doorway. The moon stood full over the Square, a thing of regal glory; but Hedger did not see the moon; he was looking, murderously, for men. Presently two, wearing straw hats and white trousers and carrying canes, came down the steps from his house. He rose and dogged them across the Square. They were laughing and seemed very much elated about something. As one stopped to light a cigarette, Hedger caught from the other

“Don't you think she has a beautiful talent?”

His companion threw away his match. “She has a beautiful figure.” They both ran to catch the stage.

Hedger went back to his studio. The light was shining from her transom. For the first time he violated her privacy at night and looked through that fatal aperture. She was sitting, fully dressed, in the window, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the housetops. He watched her until she rose, looked about her with a disdainful, crafty smile, and turned out the light.

The next morning, when Miss Bower went out, Hedger followed her. Her white skirt gleamed ahead of him as she sauntered about the Square. She sat down behind the Garibaldi statue and opened a music book she carried. She turned the leaves carelessly, and several times glanced in his direction. He was on the point of going over to her when she rose quickly and looked up at the sky. A flock of pigeons had risen from somewhere in the crowded Italian quarter to the south, and were wheeling rapidly up through the morning air, soaring and dropping, scattering and coming together, now gray, now white as silver, as they caught or intercepted the sunlight. She put up her hand to shade her eyes and followed them with a kind of defiant delight in her face.

Hedger came and stood beside her. “You've surely seen them before?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, still looking up. “I see them every day from my windows. They always come home about five o'clock. Where do they live?”

“I don't know. Probably some Italian raises them for the market. They were here long before I came, and I've been here four years.”

“In that same gloomy room? Why didn't you take mine when it was vacant?”

“It isn't gloomy. That's the best light for painting.”

“Oh, is it? I don't know anything about painting. I'd like to see your pictures some time. You have such a lot in there. Don't they get dusty, piled up against the wall like that?”

“Not very. I'd be glad to show them to you. Is your name really Eden Bower? I've seen your letters on the table.”

“Well, it's the name I'm going to sing under. My father's name is Bowers, but my friend, Mr. Jones, a Chicago newspaper man who writes about music, told me to drop the 's.'” He's crazy about my voice.”

Miss Bower didn't usually tell the whole story—about anything. Her first name, when she lived in Huntington, Ill., was Edna, but Mr. Jones had persuaded her to change it to one which he felt would be worthy of her future. She was quick to take suggestions, though she told him she “didn't see what was the matter with Edna.”

She explained to Hedger that she was going to Paris to study. She was waiting in New York for Chicago friends who were to take her over, but who had been detained.

“Did you study in Paris?” she asked.

“No, I've never been in Paris. But I was in the south of France all last summer, studying with C—. He's the biggest man among the moderns—at least I think so.”

Miss Bower sat down and made room for him on the bench. “Do tell me about it. I expected to be there by this time, and I can't wait to find out what it's like.”

Hedger began to relate how he had seen some of this Frenchman's work in an exhibition, and deciding at once that this was the man with whom he wanted to study, he had taken a boat for Marseilles the next week, going over steerage. He proceeded at once to the little town on the coast where his painter lived, and presented himself. The man never took pupils, but because Hedger had come so far he let him stay. Hedger lived at the master's house and every day they went out together to paint, sometimes on the blazing rocks down by the sea. They wrapped themselves in light woollen blankets and didn't feel the heat. Being there and working with C— was being in paradise, Hedger concluded; he learned more in three months than in all his life before.

Eden Bower laughed.

“You're a funny fellow. Didn't you do anything but work? Are the women very beautiful? Did you have awfully good things to eat and drink?”

Hedger said some of the women were fine looking, especially one girl who went about selling fish and lobsters. About the food there was nothing remarkable—except the ripe figs, he liked those. They drank sour wine, and used goat-butter, which was very strong.

“But don't they have parties or banquets? Aren't there any fine hotels down there?”

“Yes, but they are all closed in summer and the country people are poor. It's a beautiful country, though.”

“How beautiful?” she persisted.

“If you want to go in, I'll show you some sketches and you'll see.”

Miss Bower rose. “All right. I won't go to my fencing lesson this morning. Do you fence? Here comes your dog. You can't move but he's after you. He always makes a face at me when I meet him in the hall, and shows his nasty little teeth as if he wanted to bite me.”

In the studio Hedger got out his sketches, but to Miss Bower whose favourite pictures were “Christ before Pilate” and a red-haired Magdalen of Henner, these landscapes were not at all beautiful, and they gave her no idea of any country whatsoever. She was careful not to commit herself, however. Her vocal teacher had already convinced her that she had a great deal to learn about many things.

“Why don't we go out to lunch somewhere?” Hedger asked, and began to dust his fingers with a handkerchief which he got out of sight as swiftly as possible.

“All right, the Brevoort,” she said carelessly. “I think that's a good place and they have good wine. I don't care for cocktails.”

Hedger felt his chin uneasily. “I'm afraid I haven't shaved this morning. If you could wait for me in the Square? It won't take me ten minutes.”

Left alone, he found a clean collar and handkerchief, brushed his coat and blacked his shoes, and last of all dug up ten dollars from the bottom of an old copper kettle he had brought from Spain. His winter hat was of such a complexion that the Brevoort hall boy winked at the porter as he took it and placed it on the rack in a row of fresh straw ones.

afternoon Eden Bower was lying on the couch in her music room, her face turned to the window, watching the pigeons. Reclining thus, she could see none of the neighbouring roofs, only the sky itself and the birds that crossed and re-crossed her field of vision, white as scraps of paper blowing in the wind. She was thinking that she was young and handsome and had had a good luncheon, that a very easy-going, light-hearted city lay in the streets below her; and she was wondering why she found this queer painter chap, with his lean, bluish cheeks and heavy black eyebrows, more interesting than the smart young men she met at her teacher's studio.

Eden Bower was at twenty very much the same person that we all know her to be at forty except that she knew a great deal less. But one thing she knew; that she was to be Eden Bower. She was like someone standing before a great show window full of beautiful and costly things, deciding which she will order. She understands that they will not all be delivered immediately, but one by one they will arrive at her door. She already knew some of the many things that were to happen to her; for instance, that the Chicago millionaire who was going to take her abroad with his sister as chaperon, would eventually press his claim in quite another manner. He was the most circumspect of bachelors, afraid of everything obvious, even of women who were too flagrantly handsome. He was a nervous collector of pictures and furniture, a nervous patron of music, and a nervous host; very cautious about his health and about any course of conduct that might make him ridiculous. But she knew that he would at last throw all his precautions to the winds.

People like Eden Bower are inexplicable. Her father sold farming machinery in Huntington, Ill., and she had grown up in that prairie town with no acquaintances or experiences outside of it. Yet from her earliest childhood she had not one conviction or opinion in common with the people about her—the only people she knew.

Before she was out of short dresses she had made up her mind that she was going to be an actress, that she would live far away in great cities, that she would be much admired by men and would have everything she wanted. When she was thirteen, and was already singing and reciting for church entertainments, she read in some illustrated magazine a long article about the late Czar of Russia, then just come to the throne or about to come to it. After that, lying in the hammock on the front porch on summer evenings, or sitting through a long sermon in the family pew, she amused herself by trying to make up her mind whether she would or would not be the Czar's mistress when she played in his capital.

Now, Edna had met this fascinating word only in the novels of Ouida—her hard-worked little mother kept a long row of them in the upstairs storeroom, behind the linen chest. In Huntington, women who bore that relation to men were called by a very different name, and their lot was not an enviable one; of all the shabby and poor, they were the shabbiest. But then, Edna had never lived in Huntington; not even before she began to find books like “Sapho [sic]” and “,” secretly sold in paper covers throughout Illinois. It was as if she had come into Huntington, into the Bowers family, on one of the trains that puffed over the marshes behind their back fence all day long, and was waiting for another train to take her out.

As she grew older and handsomer, she had many beaux, but these small-town boys didn't interest her. If a lad kissed her when he brought her home from a dance, she was indulgent and she rather liked it. But if he pressed her further, she slipped away from him, laughing. After she began to sing in Chicago, she was consistently discreet. She stayed as a guest in rich people's houses, and she knew that she was being watched like a rabbit in a laboratory. Covered up in bed, with the lights out, she thought her own thoughts, and laughed.

This summer in New York was her first taste of freedom. The Chicago capitalist, after all his arrangements were made for sailing, had been compelled to go to Mexico to look after oil interests. His sister knew an excellent singing master in New York. Why should not a discreet, well-balanced girl like Miss Bower spend the summer there, studying quietly? The capitalist suggested that his sister might enjoy a summer on Long Island; he would rent the Griffiths place for her, with all the servants, and Eden could stay there. But his sister met this proposal with a cold stare.

So it fell out that between selfishness and greed, Eden got a summer all her own—which really did a great deal toward making her an artist and whatever else she was afterward to become. She had time to look about, to watch without being watched; to select diamonds in one window and furs in another, to select shoulders and moustaches in the big hotels where she went to lunch. She had the easy freedom of obscurity and the consciousness of power. She enjoyed both. She was in no hurry.

While Eden Bower watched the pigeons, Don Hedger sat on the other side of the bolted doors, looking into a pool of dark turpentine at his idle brushes, wondering why a woman could do this to him. He, too, was sure of his future and knew that he was a chosen man. He could not know, of course, that he was merely the first to fall under a fascination which was to be disastrous to a few men and pleasantly stimulating to many thousands. Each of these two young people sensed the future, but not completely. Don Hedger knew that nothing much would ever happen to him. Eden Bower understood that to her a great deal would happen. But she did not guess that her neighbour would have more tempestuous adventures sitting in his dark studio than she would find in all the capitals of Europe, or in all the latitude of conduct she was prepared to permit herself.

Sunday morning Eden was crossing the Square with a spruce young man in a white flannel suit and a Panama hat. They had been breakfasting at the Brevoort and he was coaxing her to let him come up to her rooms and sing for an hour.

“No, I've got to write letters. You must run along now. I see a friend of mine over there, and I must ask him about something before I go up.”

“That fellow with the dog? Where did you pick him up?” The young man glanced toward the seat under a sycamore where Hedger was reading the morning paper.

“Oh, he's an old friend from the West,” said Eden easily. “I won't introduce -you because he doesn't like people. He's a recluse. Good-bye. I can't be sure about Tuesday. I'll go with you if I have time after my lesson.”

She nodded, left him and went over to the seat littered with newspapers. The young man went up the Avenue without looking back.

“Well, what are you going to do to-day? Shampoo this animal all morning?” Eden inquired teasingly.

He made room for her on the seat. “No, at twelve o'clock I'm going out to Coney Island. One of my models, a fine girl, is going up in a balloon this afternoon. I've often promised to go and see her, and now I'm going.”

Eden asked if models usually did such stunts. No, Hedger told her, but Molly Welch added to her earnings in that way.

“I believe,” he added, “she likes the excitement of it. She's got a good deal of spirit. That's why I like to paint her. So many models have flaccid bodies.”

“And she hasn't, eh? Is she the one who comes to see you? I can't help hearing her, she talks so loud.”

“Yes, she has a rough voice, but she's a fine girl. I don't suppose you'd be interested in going?”

“I don't know,” Eden sat tracing patterns on the asphalt with the end of her parasol. “Is it any fun? I got up feeling I'd like to do something different to-day. It's the first Sunday I've not had to sing in church. I had that engagement for breakfast at the Brevoort, but it wasn't very exciting. That chap can't talk about anything but himself.”

Hedger warmed a little. “If you've never been to Coney Island, you ought to go. It's nice to see all the people; tailors and bartenders and prize-fighters with their best girls, and all sorts of folks taking a holiday.”

Eden looked sidewise at him. So one ought to be interested in people of that kind, ought one? He was certainly a funny fellow. Yet he was never, somehow, tiresome. She had seen a good deal of him lately, but she kept wanting to know him better, to find out what made him different from men like the one she had just left—whether he really was as different as he seemed.

“I'll go with you,” she said at last, “if you'll leave that at home.”

She pointed to Cæsar's flickering ears with her sunshade.

“But he's half the fun. You'd like to hear him bark at the waves when they come in.”

“No, I wouldn't. He's jealous and disagreeable if he sees you talking to anyone else. Look at him now.”

“Of course, if you make a face at him. He knows what that means and he makes a worse face. He likes Molly Welch, and she'll be disappointed if I don't bring him.”

Eden said decidedly that he couldn't take both of them. So at twelve o'clock when she and Hedger got on the boat at Desbrosses street, Cæsar was lying on his pallet with a bone.

Eden enjoyed the boat ride. It was the first time she had been on the water and she felt as if she were embarking for France. The light, warm breeze and the plunge of the waves made her feel wide awake, and she liked crowds of any kind. They went to the balcony of a big, noisy restaurant and had a shore dinner with tall steins of beer. Hedger had got a big advance from his advertising firm since he first lunched with Miss Bower ten days ago, and he was ready for anything.

After dinner they went to the tent behind the bathing beach, where the tops of two balloons bulged out over the canvas. A red-faced man in a linen suit stood in front of the tent, shouting in a hoarse voice and telling the people that if the crowd was good for five dollars more a beautiful young woman would risk her life for their entertainment. Four little boys in dirty red uniforms ran about taking contributions in their pill-box hats. One of the balloons was bobbing up and down in its tether and people were shoving one another to get nearer the tent.

“Is it dangerous, as he says?” Eden asked.

“Molly says it's simple enough if nothing goes wrong with the balloon. Then it would be all up, I suppose.”

“Wouldn't you like to go up with her?”

“I? Of course not. I'm not fond of taking foolish risks.”

Eden sniffed. “I shouldn't think sensible risks would be very much fun.”

Hedger did not answer, for just then everyone began to shove the other way and shout, “Look out. There she goes!” And a band of six pieces began playing furiously.

As the balloon rose from its tent enclosure, they saw a girl in green tights standing in the basket, holding carelessly to one of the ropes with one hand and with the other waving to the spectators. A long rope trailed behind to keep the balloon from blowing out to sea.

As it soared, the figure in green tights in the basket diminished to a mere spot, and the balloon itself, in the brilliant light, looked like a big silver-gray bat, with its wings folded. When it began to sink, the girl stepped through the hole in the basket to a trapeze that hung below, and gracefully descended through the air, holding to the rod with both hands, keeping her body taut and her feet close together. The crowd—it had grown very large by this time—cheered vociferously. The men took off their hats and waved, little boys shouted, and fat old women, shining with the heat and a beer lunch, murmured admiring comments upon the balloonist's figure.

“Beautiful legs, she has!”

“That's so,” Hedger whispered. “Not many girls would look well in that position.”

Then, for some reason, he blushed a slow, dark, painful crimson.

The balloon descended slowly, a little way from the tent, and the red-faced man in the linen suit caught Molly Welch before her feet touched the ground and pulled her to one side. The band struck up “Blue Bell” by way of welcome, and one of the sweaty pages ran forward and presented the balloonist with a large bouquet of artificial flowers. She smiled and thanked him, and ran back across the sand to the tent.

“Can't we go inside and see her?” Eden asked. “You can explain to the door man. I want to meet her.”

Edging forward, she herself addressed the man in the linen suit and slipped something from her purse into his hand.

They found Molly seated before a trunk that had a mirror in the lid and a “make-up” outfit spread upon the tray. She was wiping the cold cream and powder from her neck with a discarded chemise.

“Hello, Don,” she said cordially. “Brought a friend?”

Eden liked her. She had an easy, friendly manner, and there was something boyish and devil-may-care about her.

“Yes, it's fun. I'm mad about it,” she said in reply to Eden's questions. “I always want to let go, when I come down on the bar. You don't feel your weight at all, as you would on a stationary trapeze.”

The big drum boomed outside, and the publicity man began shouting to newly arrived boat-loads. Miss Welch took a last pull at her cigarette. “Now you'll have to get out, Don. I change for the next act. This time I go up in a black evening dress, and lose the skirt in the basket before I start down.”

“Yes, go along,” said Eden. “Wait for me outside the door. I'll stay and help her dress.”

Hedger waited and waited, while women of every build bumped into him and begged his pardon, and the red pages ran about holding out their caps for coins, and the people ate and perspired and shifted parasols against the sun. When the band began to play a two-step all the bathers ran up out of the surf to watch the ascent. The second balloon bumped and rose, and the crowd began shouting to the girl in a black evening dress who stood leaning against the ropes and smiling.

“It's a new girl,” they called. “It ain't the Countess this time. You're a peach, girlie!”

The balloonist acknowledged these compliments, bowing and looking down over the sea of upturned faces, but Hedger was determined she should not see him, and he darted behind the tent-fly. He was suddenly dripping with cold sweat, his mouth was full of the bitter taste of anger, and his tongue felt stiff behind his set teeth. Molly Welch, in a shirt-waist and a white. tam-o'-shanter cap, slipped out from the tent under his arm and laughed up in his face. “She's a crazy one, you brought along. She'll get what she wants!”

“Oh, I'll settle with you, all right!” Hedger brought out with difficulty.

“It's not my fault, Donnie. I couldn't do anything with her. She bought me off. What's the matter with you? Are you soft on her? She's safe enough. It's as easy as rolling off a log, if you keep cool.” Molly Welch was rather excited herself, and she was chewing gum at a high speed as she stood beside him, looking up at the floating silver cone.

“Now watch,” she exclaimed suddenly. “She's coming down on the bar. I advised her to cut that out, but you see she does it first rate. And she got rid of the skirt, too. I don't think those black tights show off her legs very well, she's got fine legs. But she keeps her feet together like I told her, and makes a good line along the back. See the light on those silver slippers—that was a good idea of mine. Come along to meet her. Don't be a grouch; she's done it fine!”

Molly tweaked his elbow, and then left him standing like a stump while she ran down the beach with the crowd, which was flowing over the sand like a thick liquid and gazing upward at the slowly falling silver star.

Though Hedger was sulking, his eye could not help seeing the low blue welter of the sea, the arrested bathers, standing in the surf, their arms and legs stained red by the dropping sun, shading their eyes and looking shoreward while the great bird settled down.

Molly Welch and the red-faced man caught Eden under the arms and lifted her aside, a red page dashed up with a bouquet, and the band struck up “Blue Bell.” Eden laughed and bowed, took Molly's arm and ran up the sand in her black tights and silver slippers, dodging the friendly old women and the gallant sports who wanted to offer their homage on the spot.

When she emerged from the tent, dressed in her own clothes, that part of the beach was almost deserted. She stepped to her companion's side and said, carelessly, “Hadn't we better try to catch this boat? I hope you're not angry with me. Really, it was lots of fun.”

Hedger looked at his watch.

“Yes, we have fifteen minutes to get to the boat,” he said politely.

As they walked toward the pier, one of the red-imp pages ran up panting.

“Lady, you're carrying off the bouquet,” he said aggrievedly.

Eden stopped and looked at the bunch of spotty cotton roses in her hand. “Of course. I want them for a souvenir. You gave them to me yourself.”

“I give 'em to you for looks, but you can't take 'em away. They belong to the show.”

“Oh, you always use the same bunch?”

“Sure we do. There ain't too much money in this business.”

She laughed and tossed them back to him.

“Why are you angry?” she asked Hedger. “I wouldn't have done it if I'd been with some fellows, but I thought you were the sort who wouldn't mind. Molly didn't for a minute think you would.”

“What possessed you to do such a fool thing?” he asked roughly.

“I don't know. When I saw Molly coming down, I wanted to try it. It looked exciting. Didn't I hold myself as well as she did?”

Hedger shrugged his shoulders, but in his heart he instantly forgave her.

The return boat was not crowded, though the boats that passed them, going out, were packed to the rails. The sun was setting. Boys and girls sat on the long benches with their arms about each other, singing.

Eden felt a strong wish to propitiate her companion, to be alone with him. She had been curiously wrought up by her balloon trip; it was a lark, but not very satisfying unless one came back to something after the flight. She wanted to be admired and adored.

Though Eden said nothing, and sat with her arms limp on the rail in front of her, looking languidly at the rising silhouette of the city and the bright path of the sun, Hedger felt a strange drawing near to her. If he but brushed her white skirt with his knee, there was an instant communication between them, such as there had never been before. They did not talk at all, but when they went over the gang-plank she took his arm and kept her shoulder close to him. He felt as if they were enveloped in a highly charged atmosphere, an invisible network of subtle, almost painful sensibility. They had somehow taken hold of each other.

An hour later, they were dining in the back garden of a little French hotel on Ninth street, long since passed away. It was cool and leafy there, and the mosquitoes were not very numerous. A party of South Americans at another table were drinking champagne, and Eden murmured that she thought she would like some, if it were not too expensive. “Perhaps it will make me think I am in the balloon again. That was a very nice feeling. You've forgiven me, haven't you?”

Hedger gave her a quick straight look from under his black eyebrows, and something went over her that was like a chill, except that it was warm and feathery. She drank most of the wine; her companion was indifferent to it. He was talking more to her to-night than he had ever done before. She asked him about a new picture she had seen in his room, a queer thing full of stiff, supplicating female figures. “It's Indian, isn't it?”

“Yes. I call it Rain Spirits, or maybe, Indian Rain. In the South-west, where I've been a good deal, the Indian traditions make women have to do with the rainfall. They were supposed to control it, somehow, and to be able to find springs and make moisture come out of the earth. You see I'm trying to learn to paint what people think and feel; to get away from all that photographic stuff. When I look at you, I see what a camera would see, do I?”

“How can I tell?”

“Well, if I should paint you, I could make you understand what I see.” For the second time that day Hedger crimsoned unexpectedly, and his eyes fell and steadily contemplated a dish of little radishes. “That particular picture I got from a story a Mexican priest told me; he said he found it in an old manuscript book in a monastery down there, written by some Spanish missionary. He got his stories from the Aztecs. This one he called 'The Forty Lovers of the Queen,' and it was more or less about rain-making.”

“Aren't you going to tell it to me?” Eden asked.

Hedger fumbled among the radishes. “I don't know if it's the proper kind of story.”

Eden smiled; “Oh, forget about that! I've been balloon riding to-day. I like to hear you talk.”

Her low voice was flattering. She had seemed like clay in his hands ever since they got on the boat to come home. He leaned back in his chair, forgot his food and, looking at her intently, began to tell his story, the theme of which he somehow felt was dangerous to-night.

The tale began, he said, somewhere in Ancient Mexico, and concerned the daughter of a king. The birth of this Princess was preceded by unusual portents. Three times her mother dreamed that she was delivered of serpents, which betokened that the child she was to bear would have power with the rain gods. The serpent was the symbol of water. The Princess grew up dedicated to the gods, and wise men taught her the rain-making mysteries. She was guarded from men at all times, for it was the law of Thunder that she be so until her marriage. In the years of her adolescence, rain was abundant with her people. The oldest man could not remember such fertility.

When the Princess had counted eighteen years, her father went to drive out a war party that harried his borders on the north and troubled his prosperity. The King destroyed the invaders and brought home many prisoners. Among the prisoners was a young chief, taller than any of his captors, of such strength and ferocity that the King's people came a day's journey to look at him. When the Princess beheld his great stature, and saw that his arms and breast were covered with the figures of wild animals, bitten into the skin and coloured, she begged his life from her father. She desired that he should practise his art upon her, and prick upon her skin the signs of Rain and Lightning and Thunder, and stain the wounds with herb-juices, as they were upon his own body. For many days, upon the roof of the King's house, the Princess submitted herself to the bone needle, and the women with her marvelled at her fortitude.

But the Princess was without shame before the Captive, and it came about that he threw from him his needles and his stains, and embraced the Princess; and her women ran down from the roof screaming, to call the guard which stood at the gateway of the King's house, and none stayed to protect their mistress. When the guard came, the Captive was thrown into bonds, and he was maimed, and his tongue was torn out and he was given for a slave to the Rain Princess.

The country of the Aztecs to the east was tormented by thirst, and their king, hearing much of the rain-making arts of the Princess, sent an embassy to her father, with presents and an offer of marriage. So the Princess went from her father to be the Queen of the Aztecs, and she took with her the Captive, who served her in everything with entire fidelity and slept upon a mat before her door.

The King gave his bride a fortress on the outskirts of the city, whither she retired to entreat the rain gods. This fortress was called the Queen's House, and on the night of the new moon the Queen came to it from the palace. But when the moon waxed and grew toward the round, then the Queen returned to the King. The drought abated in the country and rain fell abundantly by reason of the Queen's power with the stars.

When the Queen went to her own house she took with her no servant but the Captive, and he slept outside her door and brought her food after she had fasted. The Queen had a jewel of great value, a turquoise that had fallen from the sun, and had the image of the sun upon it. And when she admired a young man whom she had seen in the army or among the slaves, she sent the Captive to him with the jewel, for a sign that he should come to her at the Queen's House upon business concerning the welfare of all. And some, after she had talked with them, she sent away with rewards; and some she took in and kept them by her for one day or two.

Afterward she called the Captive and bade him conduct the youth by the secret way he had come, underneath the chambers of the fortress. But for the going away of the Queen's visitors the Captive took out the bar that was beneath a stone in the floor of the passage and put in its stead a rush-reed, and the youth stepped upon it and fell through into a cavern that was the bed of an underground river, and whatever was thrown into it was not seen again. In this service and in all others the Captive did not fail the Queen.

But when the Queen sent for the Captain of the Archers, she detained him four days, and on the fourth day she went to the Captive outside her door and said: “To-morrow take this man up by the sure way, by which the King comes, and let him live.”

In the Queen's door were arrows, purple and white. When she desired the King to come to her publicly, with his guard, she sent him a white arrow, but when she sent the purple, he came secretly and covered himself with his mantle to be hidden from the stone gods at the gate. When the Queen thus detained the Captain of the Archers, and moreover purposed to let him live, the Captive took a purple arrow to the King, and the King came secretly and found them together. He killed the Captain with his own hand, but the Queen he brought to public trial. The Captive, when he was put to the question, told on his fingers forty men that he had let through the underground passage into the river. The Captive and the Queen were put to death by fire, both on the same day, and afterward there was scarcity of rain.

Eden Bower sat shivering a little while she listened. Hedger was not trying to please her, she thought, but to antagonize and frighten her by his fantastic story. She had often told herself that his lean, big-boned lower jaw was like his bulldog's, but to-night his face made Cæsar's most savage and determined expression seem an affectation. Now she was looking at the man he really was. Nobody's eyes had ever defied her like this. They were searching her and seeing everything: all she had concealed from Livingston, and from the millionaire and his friends, and from the newspaper men. He was testing her, trying her out, and she was more ill at ease than she wished to show.

“That's quite a thrilling story,” she said at last, rising and winding her scarf about her throat. “It must be getting late. Almost everyone has gone.”

They walked down the Avenue like people who have quarrelled, or who wish to get rid of each other. Hedger did not take her arm at the street crossings and they did not linger in the Square. At her door he tried none of the old devices of the Livingston boys. He stood like a post, having forgotten to take off his hat, gave her a harsh, threatening glance, muttered “good-night,” and shut his own door noisily.

There was no question of sleep for Eden Bower. Her brain was working like a machine that would never stop. After she undressed she tried to calm her nerves by smoking a cigarette, lying on the divan by the open window. But she grew wider and wider awake, combating the challenge that had flamed all evening in the strange man's eyes. The balloon had been one kind of excitement, the wine another; but the thing that had roused her, as a blow rouses a proud man, was the doubt, the contempt, the sneering hostility with which this violent man had looked at her when he told his savage story. Crowds and balloons were all very well, she reflected, but woman's chief adventure is man. With a mind over-active and a sense of life over-strong, she wanted to walk across the roofs in the starlight; to sail over the sea and face at once a world of which she had never been afraid.

Hedger must be asleep; his dog had stopped sniffing under the double doors. Eden put on her wrapper and slippers and stole softly down the hall over the old carpet; one loose board creaked just as she reached the ladder. The trap-door was open, as always on hot nights. When she stepped out on the roof she drew a long breath and walked across it, looking up at the stars. Her foot touched something soft; she heard a low growl, and on the instant Cæsar's sharp little teeth caught her ankle and waited. His breath was like steam on her leg. Nobody had ever intruded upon his roof before, and he panted for the movement or the word that would let him spring his jaw. Instead the hand that held it closed on his throat, as Hedger reached out from his blankets.

“Wait a minute. I'll settle with him,” he said grimly.

He dragged the dog toward the manhole and disappeared. When he came back he found Eden standing over by the dark chimney, looking away in an offended attitude.

“I caned him unmercifully,” he panted. “Of course, you didn't hear anything; he never whines when I beat him. He didn't nip you, did he?”

“TI don't know whether he broke the skin or not,” she answered aggrievedly, still looking off into the west.

“If I were one of your friends in white trousers, I'd strike a match to find whether you were hurt, though I know you are not, and then I'd see your ankle, wouldn't I?”

“I suppose so.”

He shook his head and stood with his hands in the pockets of his old painting jacket. “I'm not up to such boy-tricks. If you want the place to yourself, I'll clear out. But if you stay here and I stay here—” he shrugged his shoulders.

Eden did not stir, and she made no reply. Her head drooped slightly, as if she were considering. But the moment he put his arms about her they began to talk, both at once, as people do in an opera. The instant avowal of each brought out a flood of trivial admissions. Hedger confessed his crime, was reproached and forgiven, and now Eden knew what it was in his look that she had found so disturbing of late.

Standing against the black chimney, with the sky behind and blue shadows before, they looked like one of Hedger's own paintings of that period; two figures, one white and one dark, and nothing whatever distinguishable about them but that they were male and female. The faces were lost, the contours blurred in shadow, but the figures were a man and a woman, and that was their whole concern and their mysterious beauty—it was the rhythm in which they moved, at last, along the roof and down into the house. She came down very slowly. The excitement and bravado and uncertainty of that long day and night seemed all at once to tell upon her. When his feet were on the carpet and he reached up to lift her down, she twined her arms about his neck as after a long separation, and turned her face to him, and her lips, with their perfume of youth.

time they quarrelled, of course, and about an abstraction—as young people often do, as mature people almost never do. Eden came in late one afternoon. She had been with some of her musical friends to lunch at Burton Ives' studio, and she began telling Hedger about that beautiful place. He listened a moment and then threw down his brushes.

“I know exactly what it's like,” he said impatiently. “A very good department store conception of a studio. It's one of the show places.”

“Well, it's a gorgeous place, and he said I could bring you to see him. The boys tell me he's awfully kind about giving people a lift, and you might get something out of it.”

Hedger started up and pushed his canvas out of the way. “What could I possibly get from Burton Ives? He's almost the worst painter in the world; the stupidest, I mean.”

Eden was annoyed. Burton Ives had been very nice to her and had begged her to sit for him.

“You must admit that he's a very successful one,” she said coldly.

“Of course he is. Anybody can be successful who will do that sort of thing. I wouldn't paint his pictures for all the money in New York.”

“Well, I saw a lot of them, and I think they are beautiful.”

Hedger bowed stiffly.

“What's the use of being a great painter if nobody knows about you?” Eden went on persuasively. “Why don't you paint the kind of pictures people can understand, and then, after you're successful, do whatever you like.”

“As I look at it,” said Hedger brusquely, “I am successful.”

Eden looked about the dark hole. “Well, I don't see any evidences of it,” she said, biting her lip. “He has a Japanese servant and a wine cellar and keeps a riding horse.”

Hedger melted a little. “My dear, I have the most expensive luxury in the world, and I am much more extravagant than Burton Ives, for I work to please nobody but myself.”

“You mean you could make money and don't? That you don't try to get a public?”

“Exactly. A public only wants what has been done over and over. I'm painting for painters—who haven't been born.”

“What would you do if I brought Mr. Ives down here to see your things?”

“Well, for God's sake, don't! Before he left I'd probably tell him what I thought of him.”

Eden rose. “I give you up. You know very well there's only one kind of success that's real.”

“Yes, but it's not the kind you mean. So you've been thinking me a scrub painter, who needs a helping hand from some fashionable studio man? What the devil have you had anything to do with me for, then?”

“There's no use talking to you,” said Eden, walking slowly toward the door. “I've been trying to pull wires for you all afternoon, and this is what it comes to.”

She had expected that the tidings of a prospective call from the great man would be received very differently, and had been thinking as she came home in the stage how, as with a magic wand, she might gild Hedger's future, float him out of his dark hole on a tide of prosperity, see his name in the papers and his pictures in the windows on Fifth Avenue.

Hedger mechanically snapped the midsummer leash on Cæsar's collar and they ran downstairs and hurried through Sullivan street off toward the river. He wanted to be among rough, honest people, to get down where the big drays bumped over stone paving blocks, and the men wore corduroy trousers and kept their shirts open at the neck. He stopped for a drink in one of the sagging bar-rooms on the water front. He had never in his life been so deeply wounded; he did not know he could be so hurt. He had told this girl all his secrets. On the roof, in these warm, heavy summer nights, with her hands locked in his, he had been able to explain all his misty ideas about an unborn art the world was waiting for; had been able to explain them better than he had ever done to himself. And she had looked away to the chattels of this uptown studio and coveted them for him! To her he was only an unsuccessful Burton Ives.

Then why, as he had put it to her, did she take up with him? Young, beautiful, talented as she was, why had she wasted herself on a scrub? Pity? Hardly; she wasn't sentimental. There was no explaining her. But in this passion that had seemed so fearless and so fated-to-be, his own position now looked to him ridiculous. Hedger ground his teeth so loud that his dog, trotting beside him, heard him and looked up.

While they were having supper at the oysterman's, Hedger planned his escape. Whenever he saw her again, everything he had told her, that he should never have told anyone, would come back to him; ideas that he had never whispered even to the painter whom he worshipped and had gone all the way to France to see. To her they must seem his apology for not having horses and a valet, or merely the puerile boastfulness of a weak man. He would catch the train out to Long Beach to-night, and to-morrow he would go on to the north end of Long Island, where an old friend of his had a summer studio among the sand dunes, and he would stay until things came right in his mind. And she could find a smart painter, or take her punishment.

When he went home, Eden's room was dark; she was dining out somewhere. He threw his things into a hold-all he had carried all about the world with him, strapped up some colours and canvases, and ran downstairs.

days later Hedger was a restless passenger on a dirty, crowded Sunday train, coming back to town. Of course he saw now how unreasonable he had been in expecting a Huntington girl to know anything about pictures; here was a whole continent full of people who knew nothing about pictures and he didn't hold it against them. What had such things to do with him and Eden Bower? When he lay out on the dunes, watching the moon come up out of the sea, it had seemed to him that there was no wonder in the world like the wonder of Eden Bower. He was going back to her because she was older than art, because she was the most overwhelming thing that had ever come into his life.

He had written her yesterday, begging her to be at home this evening, telling her that he was contrite, and wretched enough.

Now that he was on his way to her, his stronger feeling unaccountably changed to a mood that was playful and tender. He wanted to share everything with her, even the most trivial things. He wanted to tell her about the people on the train, coming back tired from their holiday with bunches of wilted flowers and dirty daisies; to tell her that the fish-man, to whom she had often sent him for lobsters, was among the passengers, disguised in a silk shirt and a spotted tie, and how his wife looked exactly like a fish, even to her eyes.

He could tell her, too, that he hadn't even unstrapped his canvases—that ought to convince her.

In those days passengers from Long Island came into New York by ferry. Hedger had to be quick about getting his dog out of the express car in order to catch the first boat. The East River, and the bridges, and the city to the west, were burning in the conflagration of the sunset; there was that great home-coming reach of evening in the air.

The car changes from Thirty-fourth street were too many and too perplexing; for the first time in his life Hedger took a hansom cab for Washington Square. Cæsar sat bolt-upright on the worn leather cushion beside him, and they jogged off, looking down on the rest of the world.

It was twilight when they drove down lower Fifth Avenue into the Square, and through the Arch behind them were the two long rows of pale violet lights that used to bloom so beautifully against the gray stone and asphalt. Here and yonder about the Square hung globes that shed a radiance not unlike the blue mists of evening, emerging softly when daylight died, as the stars emerged in the thin blue sky. Under them the sharp shadows of the trees fell on the cracked asphalt and the sleeping grass. The first stars and the first lights were growing silver against the gradual darkening, when Hedger paid his driver and went into the house—which, thank God, was still there! On the hall table lay his letter of yesterday, unopened.

He went upstairs with every sort of fear and every sort of hope clutching at his heart; it was as if tigers were tearing him. Why was there no gas burning in the top hall? He found matches and the gas bracket. He knocked, but got no answer; nobody was there. Before his own door were exactly five bottles of milk, standing in a row. The milk-boy had taken spiteful pleasure in thus reminding him that he forgot to stop his order.

Hedger went down to the basement; it, too, was dark. The janitress was taking her evening airing on the basement steps. She sat waving a palm-leaf fan majestically, her dirty calico dress open at the neck. She told him at once that there had been “changes.” Miss Bower's room was to let again, and the piano would go to-morrow. Yes, she left on Saturday, she sailed for Europe with friends from Chicago. They arrived on Friday, heralded by many telegrams. Very rich people they were said to be, though the man had refused to pay the nurse a month's rent in lieu of notice—which would have been only right, as the young lady had agreed to take the rooms until October.

Mrs. Foley had observed, too, that he didn't overpay her or Willy for their trouble, and a great deal of trouble they had been put to, certainly. Yes, the young lady was very pleasant, but the nurse said there were rings on the mahogany table where she had put tumblers and wine glasses. It was just as well she was gone. The Chicago man was uppish in his ways, but not much to look at. She supposed he had poor health, for there was nothing to him inside his clothes.

Hedger went slowly up the stairs—never had they seemed so long, or his legs so heavy. The upper floor was emptiness and silence. He unlocked his room, lit the gas and opened the windows. When he went to put his coat in the closet, he found, hanging among his clothes, a pale, flesh-tinted dressing gown he had liked to.see her wear, with a perfume—oh, a perfume that was still Eden Bower! He shut the door behind him and there, in the dark, for a moment he lost his manliness. It was when he held this garment to him that he found a letter in the pocket.

The note was written with a lead pencil, in haste: She was sorry that he was angry, But she still didn't know just what she had done. She had thought Mr. Ives would be useful to him; she guessed he was too proud. She wanted awfully to see him again, but Fate came knocking at her door after he had left her. She believed in Fate. She would never forget him and she knew he would become the greatest painter in the world. Now she must pack. She hoped he wouldn't mind her leaving the dressing gown somehow, she could never wear it again.

After Hedger read this, standing under the gas, he went back into the closet and knelt down before the wall; the knot hole had been plugged up with a ball of wet paper—the same blue notepaper on which her letter was written.

He was hard hit. To-night he had to bear the loneliness of a whole lifetime. Knowing himself so well, he could hardly believe that such a thing had ever happened to him; that such a woman had lain happy and contented in his arms. And now it was over. He turned out the light and sat down on his painter's stool before the big window. Cæsar, on the floor beside him, rested his head on his master's knee. We must leave Hedger thus, sitting in solitude with his dog, looking up at the stars.

legend, in electric lights over the Manhattan Opera House, for weeks announced her return to New York, after years of spectacular success in Paris. She came at last, under the management of an American Opera Company, but bringing her own chef d'orchestre.

One bright December afternoon Eden Bower was going down Fifth Avenue in her car, on the way to her broker in William street. Her thoughts were entirely upon stocks—Cerro de Pasco, and how much she should buy of it—when she suddenly looked up and realized that she was skirting Washington Square. She had not seen the place since she rolled out of it in an old-fashioned four-wheeler to seek her fortune, eighteen years ago.

“''Arretes, Alphonse. Attendez-moi'',” she called, and opened the door before he could reach it. The children who were streaking over the asphalt on roller skates saw a lady in a long fur coat and short, high-heeled shoes alight from a French car and pace slowly about the Square, holding her muff to her chin. This spot, at least, had changed very little, she reflected; the same trees, the same fountain, the white arch, and over yonder Garibaldi, drawing the sword for freedom. There, just opposite her, was the old red brick house.

“Yes, that is the place,” she was thinking. “I can smell the carpets now, and that dog—what was his name? That grubby bathroom at the end of the hall, and that dreadful Hedger— Still, there was something about him, you know—”

She glanced up and blinked against the sun. From somewhere in the crowded quarter south of the Square a flock of pigeons rose, wheeling quickly upward into the brilliant blue sky. She threw back her head, pressed her muff closer to her chin, and watched them with a smile of amazement and delight. So they still rose, out of all that dirt and noise and squalor, fleet and silvery, just as they used to rise that summer when she was twenty and went up in a balloon on Coney Island!

Alphonse opened the door and tucked her robes about her. All the way down town her mind wandered from Cerro de Pasco, and she kept smiling and looking up at the sky.

When she had finished her business with the broker, she asked him to look in the telephone book for the address of M. Gaston Jules, the picture dealer, and slipped the paper on which he wrote it into her glove. It was five o'clock when she reached the French Galleries, as they were called. On entering, she gave the attendant her card, asking him to take it to M. Jules. The dealer appeared very promptly and begged her to come into his private office, where he pushed a great chair toward his desk for her and signalled his secretary to leave the room.

“How good your lighting is in here,” she observed, glancing about. “I met you at Simon's studio, didn't I? Oh, no! I never forget anybody who interests me.” She threw her muff on his writing table and sank into the deep chair. “I have come to you for some information that's not in my line. Do you know anything about an American painter named Hedger?”

He took the seat opposite her. “Don Hedger? But, certainly! There are some very interesting things of his in an exhibition at V—'s. If you would care to—”

She held up her hand. “No, no. I've no time to go to exhibitions. Is he a man of any importance?”

“Certainly. He is one of the first men among the moderns. That is to say, among the very moderns. He is always coming up with something different. He often exhibits in Paris, you must have seen—”

“No, I tell you I don't go to exhibitions. Has he had great success? That is what I want to know.”

M. Jules pulled at his short gray moustache. “But, Madame, there are many kinds of success,” he began cautiously.

Madame gave a dry laugh. “Yes, so he used to say. We once quarrelled on that issue. And how would you define his particular kind?”

M. Jules grew thoughtful. “He is a great name with all the young men, and he is decidedly an influence in art. But one can't definitely place a man who is original, erratic, and who is changing all the time.”

She cut him short. “Is he much talked about at home? In Paris, I mean? Thanks. That's all I want to know.” She rose and began buttoning her coat. “One doesn't like to have been an utter fool, even at twenty.”

“Mais, non!” M. Jules handed her her muff with a quick, sympathetic glance. He followed her out through the carpeted showroom, now closed to the public and draped in cheesecloth, and put her into her car with words appreciative of the honour she had done him in calling.

Leaning back in the cushions, Eden Bower closed her eyes, and her face, as the street lamps flashed their ugly orange light upon it, became hard and settled, like a plaster cast; so a sail, that has been filled by a strong breeze, behaves when the wind suddenly dies. To-morrow night the wind would blow again, and this mask would be the golden face of Clytemnestra. But a “big” career takes its toll, even with the best of luck.