care for it. He could become
nervously intoxicated at times, by the mere sight of such revelry,
and then he grew witty, easy in his motions, quick to say bright
things. On one of these occasions one of the models said to him:
"Why, you're nicer than I thought. I imagined you were very
solemn."
"Oh, no," he said, "only at times. You don't know me."
He seized her about the waist, but she pushed him away. He
wished now that he danced, for he saw that he might have whirled
her about the room then and there. He decided to learn at once.
The question of a girl for the dinner, troubled him. He knew of
no one except Margaret, and he did not know that she danced. There
was Miss Blue, of Blackwood—whom he had seen when she made her
promised visit to the city—but the thought of her in connection
with anything like this was to him incongruous. He wondered what
she would think if she saw such scenes as he had witnessed.
It chanced that one day when he was in the members' room, he met
Miss Kenny, the girl whom he had seen posing the night he had
entered the school. Eugene remembered her fascination, for she was
the first nude model he had ever seen and she was pretty. She was
also the one who had come and stood by him when she was posing. He
had not seen her since then. She had liked Eugene, but he had
seemed a little distant and, at first, a little commonplace. Lately
he had taken to a loose, flowing tie and a soft round hat which
became him. He turned his hair back loosely and emulated the
independent swing of Mr. Temple Boyle. That man was a sort of god
to him—strong and successful. To be like that!
The girl noted a change for what she deemed the better. He was
so nice now, she thought, so white-skinned and clear-eyed and
keen.
She pretended to be looking at the drawing of a nude when she
saw him.
"How are you?" he asked, smiling, venturing to speak to her
because he was lonely and because he knew no other girl.
She turned gaily, and returned the question, facing him with
smiling lips and genial eyes.
"I haven't seen you for some time," he said. "Are you back here
now?"
"For this week," she said. "I'm doing studio work. I don't care
for classes when I can get the other."
"I thought you liked them!" he replied, recalling her gaiety of
mood.
"Oh, I don't dislike it. Only, studio work is better."
"We've missed you," he said. "The others haven't been nearly as
nice."
"Aren't you complimentary," she laughed, her black eyes looking
into his with a twinkle.
"No, it's so," he returned, and then asked hopefully, "Are you
going to the dinner on the 16th?"
"Maybe," she said. "I haven't made up my mind. It all
depends."
"On what?"
"On how I feel and who asks me."
"I shouldn't think there'd be any trouble about that," he
observed. "If I had a girl I'd go," he went on, making a terrific
effort to reach the point where he could ask her. She saw his
intention.
"Well?" she laughed.
"Would you go with me?" he ventured, thus so shamelessly
assisted.
"Sure!" she said, for she liked him.
"That's fine!" he exclaimed. "Where do you live? I'll want to
know that." He searched for a pencil.
She gave him her number on West Fifty-seventh Street.
Because of his collecting he knew the neighborhood. It was a
street of shabby frame houses far out on the South Side. He
remembered great mazes of trade near it, and unpaved streets and
open stretches of wet prairie land. Somehow it seemed fitting to
him that this little flower of the muck and coal yard area should
be a model.
"I'll be sure and get you," he laughed. "You won't forget, will
you, Miss—"
"Just Ruby," she interrupted. "Ruby Kenny."
"It's a pretty name, isn't it?" he said. "It's euphonious. You
wouldn't let me come out some Sunday and see just where it is?"
"Yes, you may," she replied, pleased by his comment on her name.
"I'm home most every Sunday. Come out next Sunday afternoon, if you
want to."
"I will," said Eugene.
He walked out to the street with her in a very buoyant
nervously intoxicated at times, by the mere sight of such revelry,
and then he grew witty, easy in his motions, quick to say bright
things. On one of these occasions one of the models said to him:
"Why, you're nicer than I thought. I imagined you were very
solemn."
"Oh, no," he said, "only at times. You don't know me."
He seized her about the waist, but she pushed him away. He
wished now that he danced, for he saw that he might have whirled
her about the room then and there. He decided to learn at once.
The question of a girl for the dinner, troubled him. He knew of
no one except Margaret, and he did not know that she danced. There
was Miss Blue, of Blackwood—whom he had seen when she made her
promised visit to the city—but the thought of her in connection
with anything like this was to him incongruous. He wondered what
she would think if she saw such scenes as he had witnessed.
It chanced that one day when he was in the members' room, he met
Miss Kenny, the girl whom he had seen posing the night he had
entered the school. Eugene remembered her fascination, for she was
the first nude model he had ever seen and she was pretty. She was
also the one who had come and stood by him when she was posing. He
had not seen her since then. She had liked Eugene, but he had
seemed a little distant and, at first, a little commonplace. Lately
he had taken to a loose, flowing tie and a soft round hat which
became him. He turned his hair back loosely and emulated the
independent swing of Mr. Temple Boyle. That man was a sort of god
to him—strong and successful. To be like that!
The girl noted a change for what she deemed the better. He was
so nice now, she thought, so white-skinned and clear-eyed and
keen.
She pretended to be looking at the drawing of a nude when she
saw him.
"How are you?" he asked, smiling, venturing to speak to her
because he was lonely and because he knew no other girl.
She turned gaily, and returned the question, facing him with
smiling lips and genial eyes.
"I haven't seen you for some time," he said. "Are you back here
now?"
"For this week," she said. "I'm doing studio work. I don't care
for classes when I can get the other."
"I thought you liked them!" he replied, recalling her gaiety of
mood.
"Oh, I don't dislike it. Only, studio work is better."
"We've missed you," he said. "The others haven't been nearly as
nice."
"Aren't you complimentary," she laughed, her black eyes looking
into his with a twinkle.
"No, it's so," he returned, and then asked hopefully, "Are you
going to the dinner on the 16th?"
"Maybe," she said. "I haven't made up my mind. It all
depends."
"On what?"
"On how I feel and who asks me."
"I shouldn't think there'd be any trouble about that," he
observed. "If I had a girl I'd go," he went on, making a terrific
effort to reach the point where he could ask her. She saw his
intention.
"Well?" she laughed.
"Would you go with me?" he ventured, thus so shamelessly
assisted.
"Sure!" she said, for she liked him.
"That's fine!" he exclaimed. "Where do you live? I'll want to
know that." He searched for a pencil.
She gave him her number on West Fifty-seventh Street.
Because of his collecting he knew the neighborhood. It was a
street of shabby frame houses far out on the South Side. He
remembered great mazes of trade near it, and unpaved streets and
open stretches of wet prairie land. Somehow it seemed fitting to
him that this little flower of the muck and coal yard area should
be a model.
"I'll be sure and get you," he laughed. "You won't forget, will
you, Miss—"
"Just Ruby," she interrupted. "Ruby Kenny."
"It's a pretty name, isn't it?" he said. "It's euphonious. You
wouldn't let me come out some Sunday and see just where it is?"
"Yes, you may," she replied, pleased by his comment on her name.
"I'm home most every Sunday. Come out next Sunday afternoon, if you
want to."
"I will," said Eugene.
He walked out to the street with her in a very buoyant
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