"Of course," said Eddie, "I don’t pretend to understand him. We’ve never seen much of each other. He lived with my father and I lived with my mother. He was brought up differently--a Roman Catholic, for one thing; then he went to an English university for a year or two, and he’s traveled. Very well-educated chap; altogether different from me. A scholar, and very artistic." "What does he do for a living?" Angelica asked. "He’s just beginning his career," said Eddie. "It is very hard to get started with that sort of thing." Angelica’s silence was eloquent. "Then who’s this feller you call ‘doctor’?" she asked abruptly. "Does he live here?" "That’s Dr. Russell, my mother’s second husband." "Oh, I see! I had you all mixed up. But whose house is this--his?" "No. It’s mine." "Yours? Do they all live here with you?" "Certainly," he said, reddening and frowning. "I want them to. I don’t want to live alone--no social life." Poor devil! He was conscious of something ridiculous in his position, and yet he was proud of it. There weren’t many fellows of his age who could have done this. It had meant taking fearful risks, of course, and working without rest, but the worst of it was over now. He was really prominent in his world; he was a sort of financial prodigy, admired and watched. He called himself, on his office door, a stock-broker. He was on the road to becoming a millionaire; he had made up his mind to do it, and there was nothing to stop him. "Well," said Angelica, "you’re awful good to them." Again he frowned. They had both grown suddenly ill at ease, at a loss for words. Angelica got up. "Good night!" she said abruptly. It was her way of terminating an awkward moment. "Good night!" Eddie answered, rather absent-mindedly. With her volume of "Magnificent Women" tucked under her arm, Angelica went back into her own room. "He’s a fool," she said to herself, "keeping all those people; but there _is_ something about him. I don’t know--I guess he’s kind of magnificent himself." CHAPTER SEVEN I Sharp at ten o’clock the next morning Angelica knocked at Polly’s door. Her eyes were dancing, she was filled with an exhilarating sense of mischief, for she had been having breakfast with the doctor, and a regular rowdy breakfast it had been--the old delightful badinage of the street and the factory. When she had come down the dining-room was deserted, and she had lingered about waiting for any one who might come. Presently, in had come the dapper little doctor. His face had lighted up marvelously when he saw her there alone; and he had told her archly that she was welcome as the flowers in the spring. "That’s all right!" Angelica had retorted, belligerently. "Never you mind about me!" And so the conversation had proceeded, flowery compliments on his side and a continuous show of resentment on hers--all as it should be. "You’re a regular old devil!" she had told him. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"