For herself she expected nothing. She knew--none better--what there is of gratitude in this world. She trusted her child, knew that she would never forget or neglect her, but she knew also that Angelica was likely to rise where she never could follow. There would be a pension, no doubt, but no real share in any future grandeur for Mrs. Kennedy, scrubwoman, janitress, and martyr. Her dreaming was disturbed, however, and her happiness turned to uneasiness by the arrival of a second man that night. She heard the bell ring and her daughter hasten to the door, and then come back again. "Mommer, do you mind if I go out for a little while?" she asked. "Who with, Angie?" "A feller," said Angelica. "I’ll be back inside of an hour, sure. Will you be all right?" "What fellow?" "A new beau," Angelica told her, laughing. "By-by, mommer! Back soon!" So joyous, so excited! It didn’t look well for Eddie. "Now what in the world is that child up to?" Mrs. Kennedy thought. In the meantime Angelica had reached the street with Vincent, and they stood on the corner, irresolute. It was a sultry night; the street was swarming with wretched and vicious life, evil smells, a pandemonium of noise. Angelica, however, might have been standing in the golden streets of paradise, or in the desolation of hell, for all she cared. She didn’t notice, she didn’t really know, where she was. Ever since she had opened the door and seen Vincent standing outside, she had been quite beside herself. She waited on that malodorous corner, looking up into his face with hungry eyes, waiting for his words, for the sound of his voice. So much had she thought about that enchanted love scene in the dark, so long had she dwelt upon Vincent’s words, his appearance, that in this brief interlude she had been able to accomplish that amazing and essential transformation of lovers--she had changed the real man into the man she wished him to be. She was dazed, stupid with the splendour of her own creation, of the god whom she had made to worship. She was almost afraid of him. After all her preposterously exaggerated day-dreams, it was necessary that she should see in him a marvel, and of course she did see a marvel. He wore a dark suit that fitted closely to his shoulders, and moulded for the delighted eye his splendid figure, his perfectly proportioned height. He was powerful and at the same time graceful, and he carried himself regally. In his rôle of poet, he wore a white shirt with a low, open collar and a soft black tie, and he went with his hat in his hand, the better to show his keen, vigorous profile, his fine head with its rough, bright hair. Angelica felt that she would never grow tired of looking at him, and yet in less than five minutes she grew restless because he didn’t look at her. At last he did, and smiled. "Well?" he said. "What shall we do, eh?" "Whatever you like." "God forbid!" "Why?" she demanded impudently. "What _would_ you like?"