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Each evening he conscientiously greened himself and went to eat with Barbran. Time justified his faith. One evening there dropped in a plump man who exhaled a mild and comforting benevolence, like a gentle country parson. He smiled sweetly at Phil, and introduced himself as a reporter for the "Sunday World Magazine" and where was the rest of the circle?
"And he's not going to Kansas City," said Barbran defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran," said young Phil. "And he's going to paint what he wants to." "Pictures of Barbran," said young Phil. "And we're going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe off the walls and make the place a success," said Barbran. "And we're going to be married right away," said Phil.
"Well, what have you to say in your defense?" The way Barbran's eyebrows went up constituted in itself a defense fit to move any jury to acquittal. "For what?" she asked. "For corrupting my young friend Stacey. You made him paint those pictures." "They're very nice," returned Barbran demurely. "Quite true to the subject." "They're awful. They're an offense to civilization.
"But do you love him?" "Who?" said Barbran, with a start. The faint pink color ran up her cheeks. "Harvey Wheelwright, of course. Whom did you think I meant?" "He is a very estimable writer," returned Barbran primly, quite ignoring my other query. "Good-night, Barbran," said I sadly. "I'm going out to mourn your lost soul."
For when a youth who is as homely as young Phil Stacey and in that particular style of homeliness, and a girl who is as far from homely as Barbran begin, at first sight, to explore each other's opinions, they are venturing into a dim and haunted region, lighted by will-o'-the-wisps and beset with perils and pitfalls. Usually they smile as they go. Phil was smiling as I left them. So was Barbran.
She advertised feebly in the "Where to Eat" columns, catching a few stray outlanders, but for the most part people didn't come. Until the first of the month, that is. Then too many came. They brought their bills with them. Evening after evening Barbran and Phil Stacey sat in the cellar almost or quite alone.
"Good news!" "As a fad. She's a budding millionairess from the West." "No!" growled Phil, his face falling. "Bad news; eh? It occurred to me that she might want some decorations, and that you might be the one to do them." "You're a grand old man, Dominie!" said he. "Let's go." We went. We found Barbran. We conversed.
She then proceeded to sketch out for me her plans for making her Coffee Cellar and herself a Local Institution, which should lure hopeful seekers for Bohemia from the far parts of Harlem and Jersey City, and even such outer realms of darkness as New Haven and Cohoes. "That's what I intend to do," said Barbran, "as soon as I get my Great Idea worked out."
"Next week," said Barbran. "What do you think?" said both. Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself. I should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying on twenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts.
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