Miriam Finch was at once taken with Eugene. There was such an air of vigor, inquiry, appreciation and understanding about him that she could not help being impressed. He seemed somewhat like a lighted lamp casting a soft, shaded, velvety glow. He went about her room, after his introduction, looking at her pictures, her bronzes and clays, asking after the creator of this, the painter of that, where a third thing came from. "I never heard of one of these books," he said frankly, when he looked over the small, specially selected collection. "There are some very interesting things here," she volunteered, coming to his side. His simple confession appealed to her. He was like a breath of fresh air. Richard Wheeler, who had brought him in, made no objection to being neglected. He wanted her to enjoy his find. "You know," said Eugene, looking up from Burton's "Kasidah" and into her brown eyes, "New York gets me dizzy. It's so wonderful!" "Just how?" she asked. "It's so compact of wonderful things. I saw a shop the other day full of old jewelry and ornaments and quaint stones and clothes, and O Heaven! I don't know what all--more things than I had ever seen in my whole life before; and here in this quiet side street and this unpretentious house I find this room. Nothing seems to show on the outside; everything seems crowded to suffocation with luxury or art value on the inside." "Are you talking about this room?" she ventured. "Why, yes," he replied. "Take note, Mr. Wheeler," she called, over her shoulder to her young editor friend. "This is the first time in my life that I have been accused of possessing luxury. When you write me up again I want you to give me credit for luxury. I like it." "I'll certainly do it," said Wheeler. "Yes. 'Art values' too." "Yes. 'Art values.' I have it," said Wheeler. Eugene smiled. He liked her vivacity. "I know what you mean," she added. "I've felt the same thing about Paris. You go into little unpretentious places there and come across such wonderful things--heaps and heaps of fine clothes, antiques, jewels. Where was it I read such an interesting article about that?" "Not in _Craft_ I hope?" ventured Wheeler. "No, I don't think so. _Harper's Bazaar_, I believe." "Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Wheeler. "_Harper's Bazaar!_ What rot!" "But that's just what you ought to have. Why don't you do it--right?" "I will," he said. Eugene went to the piano and turned over a pile of music. Again he came across the unfamiliar, the strange, the obviously distinguished--Grieg's "Arabian Dance"; "Es war ein Traum" by Lassen; "Elegie" by Massenet; "Otidi" by Davydoff; "Nymphs and Shepherds" by Purcell--things whose very titles smacked of color and beauty. Gluck, Sgambati, Rossini, Tschaikowsky--the Italian Scarlatti--Eugene marvelled at what he did not know about music. "Play something," he pleaded, and with a smile Miriam stepped to the piano. "Do you know 'Es war ein Traum'?" she inquired. "No," said he.