She said nothing to show that she herself played, but she wondered that Eugene said nothing. It seemed neglectful and inconsiderate of him. He was busy wondering what Miriam thought of his picture. Miriam took his hand warmly at parting, looked cheerfully into his eyes, and said, "I know you two are going to be irrationally happy," and went out. Eugene felt the irritation at last. He knew Angela felt something. Miriam was resentful, that was it. She was angry at him for his seeming indifference. She had commented to herself on Angela's appearance and to her disadvantage. In her manner had been the statement that his wife was not very important after all, not of the artistic and superior world to which she and he belonged. "How do you like her?" he asked tentatively after she had gone, feeling a strong current of opposition, but not knowing on what it might be based exactly. "I don't like her," returned Angela petulantly. "She thinks she's sweet. She treats you as though she thought you were her personal property. She openly insulted me about your not telling her. Miss Whitmore did the same thing--they all do! They all will! Oh!!" She suddenly burst into tears and ran crying toward their bedroom. Eugene followed, astonished, ashamed, rebuked, guilty minded, almost terror-stricken--he hardly knew what. "Why, Angela," he urged pleadingly, leaning over her and attempting to raise her. "You know that isn't true." "It is! It is!!" she insisted. "Don't touch me! Don't come near me! You know it is true! You don't love me. You haven't treated me right at all since I've been here. You haven't done anything that you should have done. She insulted me openly to my face." She was speaking with sobs, and Eugene was at once pained and terrorized by the persistent and unexpected display of emotion. He had never seen Angela like this before. He had never seen any woman so. "Why, Angelface," he urged, "how can you go on like this? You know what you say isn't true. What have I done?" "You haven't told your friends--that's what you haven't done," she exclaimed between gasps. "They still think you're single. You keep me here hidden in the background as though I were a--were a--I don't know what! Your friends come and insult me openly to my face. They do! They do! Oh!" and she sobbed anew. She knew very well what she was doing in her anger and rage. She felt that she was acting in the right way. Eugene needed a severe reproof; he had acted very badly, and this was the way to administer it to him now in the beginning. His conduct was indefensible, and only the fact that he was an artist, immersed in cloudy artistic thoughts and not really subject to the ordinary conventions of life, saved him in her estimation. It didn't matter that she had urged him to marry her. It didn't absolve him that he had done so. She thought he owed her that. Anyhow they were married now, and he should do the proper thing.