It seemed to breathe of romance--the romance of common sense and kindliness and simplicity.

It made his own existence to that day appear a futile and unhappy striving after the impossible.

Art?
What was it?
What did it lead to?
He was sick of art, and sick of all the forms of activity to which he had hitherto been accustomed and which he had mistaken for life itself.
One little home, fixed and stable, rendered foolish the whole concourse of European hotels.
"I suppose you won't be staying here long," demanded Mrs.Challice.
"Oh no!" he said.

"I shall decide something." "Shall you take another place ?" she inquired.
"Another place ?" "Yes." Her smile was excessively persuasive and inviting.
"I don't know," he said diffidently.
"You must have put a good bit by," she said, still with the same smile.
"Or perhaps you haven't.

Saving's a matter of chance.