La Femme, as we know, was all over for this young man; through too much knowledge he had analyzed the charm away. He did not (of course) exaggerate Miss Angela's values, magnify anything about her whatever. Of course she was but a Type, and a familiar one. Only, for him she had happened to personify, with unexpected freshness, that aspect of the Question which, he was more and more convinced, scientific thinkers fallaciously slurred over: the business aspect of Home-Making, to wit. Though few of the sounder authorities openly advocated the suppression of Homes, was it not true that they--and he once among them--practically did so by denying any value in their schemes to those emotional and spiritual contributions which alone turned a house into a Home? There lay the heart of the whole great problem. "Four walls," mused Charles, as he swung rapidly down Center Street, "and three meals a day, and even the banisters dusted, to boot--these mere utilities can never make a Home." And he made a mental note of the sentence for his conservative Notes in the exercise-book of the old lady. But this day, as it fell out, was memorable in the Studio for more than meditation. When he left Miss Chorister's at four-thirty, which was when the tutorial day ended, the author did not make straight for the Studio, according to habit, but turned downtown again, instead. He had personal affairs to attend to to-day, an accumulation of small shopping and sundry errands that could not be longer procrastinated. They took much valued time. It was after six, in the winter night, when he got home. At the foot of his own steps he encountered his and his relative's new fellow-lodger, and their only one. Possibly he was still thinking scientifically of Miss Angela, for it instantly occurred to him that here was Miss Angela's full opposite. "Oh, good-evening, Miss McGee!" He spoke as pleasantly as possible, but the lodger only answered "Evening," and turned her back at once. "How do you do to-night?" "Tired as a dog." "And no wonder, working such long hours!" No answer from the lodger. "You _are_ later than usual this evening, aren't you?" "Keep me on purpose," muttered Miss McGee angrily (or something like that), climbing the tall stairs. She was a dark young woman, darkly dressed and darkly scowling, it had seemed, at the mere sight of Charles. As he knew from a rare letter on the hall table, her official name was Mary Maude McGee, but to him she was always and simply Two-Book McGee, on account of her apparent habit of reading two novels a night, every night in the year. She had them under her arm now, with the labels of the circulating library showing. Charles also had a book under his arm, "Marna": here was a topic! "Do you," he inquired, continuing the social chat, "find many good novels these days?" "No, I don't!" said she, so sharply that you would have supposed he was to blame for it. Imagine!