"But I don't want to go. I hate automobiles. I hate seeing sights. I despise this town. I've a grouch against everything in America--except you. Let me go down and tell the Captain to take his spin alone." "No, no," she sharply said. "I keep my word. I said I'd be back in a few minutes, and I'm going." He sighed resignedly. "Very well; but you'll let me come to see you?" "Why, cert! Come to dinner any day. We don't browse around much outside the hotel. We're mostly always feeding at six." "I'll come, and you must not fail to let me show you my pictures." "Sure thing! I want to buy one to take home with me." He assumed great candor. "I won't say that your ability to buy one of my pictures is not of interest to me, for it is; but quite aside from that, there is something in you that appeals to me. You make me think better of the West--of America. I feel that you will find something in my pictures which the critics miss." Then, with mournful abruptness, he added: "No doubt Joe told you of my unhappy marriage--" "No, he didn't." "My wife cares nothing for my work. She takes no interest in anything but the frippery side of life. That's what appeals to me in you--you are so aspiring. I feel that you have such wonderful possibilities. You would spur a man to big things." They were both standing as if he had forgotten where he was, and she, embarrassed but fascinated by his words, and especially held by his voice, dared not make a motion till he released her. He looked round him. "I don't wonder you dislike this room; it's horribly cold and depressing to me. I can't work here. I wish you could see my den in Paris. Perhaps you will let me show it to you some day. All my happiest days have been spent in France. I am more French than American now." He took her hand again, and with a return to his studiedly cheerful manner called her to witness that she had promised to come to see his paintings. "And please remember that I am going to take you at your word and dine with you--perhaps this very night." "All right, come along," she replied, and went away filled with wonder at the familiar, almost humble attitude he had assumed towards her. He did indeed dine with them that night, and quite won the Captain to a belief in him. "Come again," he heartily said. And the great artist feelingly answered: "I mean to, for, strange to say, I am almost as lonesome in this big town as anybody could be." This was a lie, but Haney's sympathy was roused. "There'll always be an empty chair for you," he repeated, with a feeling that he, too, was encouraging art.