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"You certainly are a secretive young man, Mr. Eugene Witla," she exclaimed, when she saw him. "Why didn't you make him tell us, Mrs. Witla?" she demanded archly of Angela, but with a secret dagger thrust in her eyes. "You'd think he didn't want us to know." Angela cowered beneath the sting of this whip cord.
It was a sunny place to work. Witla, who came here at the end of his eleventh school year and when he had just turned seventeen, was impressed with the personality of Mr. Williams. He liked him. He came to like a Jonas Lyle who worked at what might be called the head desk of the composing room, and a certain John Summers who worked at odd times whenever there was an extra rush of job printing.
Why I can't believe this. I'm not in my right mind. Suzanne Dale, don't stand there! Don't look at me like that! Are you telling me, your mother? Tell me it isn't so! Tell me it isn't so before you drive me mad! Oh, great Heavens, what am I coming to? What have I done? Eugene Witla of all men! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!" "Why do you carry on so, mama?" asked Suzanne calmly.
I want to ask them about you, and then I'll tell you when I come again." "Oh, Angela," he pleaded. "Now, please wait, Mr. Witla," she pleaded. She had never yet called him Eugene. "I'll come again in two or three weeks. I want to think it over. It's better." He curbed his desire and waited, but it made all the more vigorous and binding the illusion that she was the one woman in the world for him.
Eugene had admired it in his youth as beautiful and peaceful. "It is nice," he replied to his father. "I'll take a look at it some day." Witla senior felt set up. His son was doing him honor. Mrs. Witla, like her husband, was showing the first notable traces of the flight of time. The crow's-feet at the sides of her eyes were deeper, the wrinkles in her forehead longer.
She had seen the Witla apartment, and had been very much pleased with it. The reception day came and Angela begged Eugene to come home early. "I know you don't like to be alone with a whole roomful of people, but Mr. Scalchero was none other than Arthur Skalger, of Port Jervis, New Jersey, but he assumed this corruption of his name in Italy to help him to success.
He held out his arms and she came, but for the life of him he could not dispel this terrible doubt. It took the joy out of his kiss as if he had been dreaming a dream of something perfect in his arms and had awaked to find it nothing as if life had sent him a Judas in the shape of a girl to betray him. "Do let us end this, Mr. Witla," said Mrs.
Broken window shutters, dirty pavements, half frozen ash cart drivers, overdrawn, heavily exaggerated figures of policemen, tenement harridans, beggars, panhandlers, sandwich men of such is Art according to Eugene Witla." Eugene winced when he read this. For the time being it seemed true enough. His art was shabby. Yet there were others like Luke Severas who went to the other extreme.
"Here comes the boss," and Joseph immediately pretended to be going to the engine room for a drink. The smith blew up his fire as though it were necessary to heat the iron he had laid in the coals. Jack Stix came ambling by. "Who did that?" he asked, stopping after a single general, glance and looking at the sketch on the wall. "Mr. Witla, the new man," replied the smith, reverently.
What a charming view you have here. Mrs. Witla! I'm delighted to meet you. I am a little late but I was unavoidably detained. One of our German associates is in the city." He divested himself of his great coat and rubbed his hands before the fire. He tried, now that he had unbent so far, to be genial and considerate. If he and Eugene were to do any business in the future it must be so.
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