that she is incapable of that. We are never nearer to evil than when we believe that.”

“You are handsomer than ever,” observed Felix, irrelevantly.

Gertrude had got used to hearing him say this. There was not so much excitement in it as at first. “What ought one to do?” she continued. “To give parties, to go to the theatre, to read novels, to keep late hours?”

“I don’t think it’s what one does or one doesn’t do that promotes enjoyment,” her companion answered. “It is the general way of looking at life.”

“They look at it as a discipline—that’s what they do here. I have often been told that.”

“Well, that’s very good. But there is another way,” added Felix, smiling: “to look at it as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity—yes,” said Gertrude. “One would get more pleasure that way.”

“I don’t attempt to say anything better for it than that it has been my own way—and that is not saying much!” Felix had laid down his palette and brushes; he was leaning back, with his arms folded, to judge the effect of his work. “And you know,” he said, “I am a very petty personage.”“You have a great deal of talent,” said Gertrude.
“No—no,” the young man rejoined, “I have not a great deal of talent. It is nothing at all remarkable. I assure you I should know if it were. I shall always be obscure. The world will never hear of me.” 
Gertrude looked at him with a strange feeling. She was thinking of the great world which he knew and which she did not, and how full of brilliant talents it must be, since it could afford to make light of his abilities.
“You needn’t in general attach much importance to anything I tell you,” he pursued; “but you may believe me when I say this,—that I am little better than a good-natured feather-head.”
“A feather-head?” she repeated.
“I am a species of Bohemian.”
“A Bohemian?” Gertrude had never heard this term before, save as a geographical denomination; and she quite failed to understand the figurative meaning which her companion appeared to attach to it. But it gave her pleasure.
Felix had pushed back his chair and risen to his feet; he slowly came toward her, smiling. “I am a sort of adventurer,” he said, looking down at her.
She got up, meeting his smile. “An adventurer?” she repeated. “I should like to hear your adventures.”
For an instant she believed that he was going to take her hand; but he dropped his own hands suddenly into the pockets of his painting-jacket. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t,” he said. “I 

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