In their naive interest in my fortunes, the Grossenstecks rejoiced at an acceptance, and were correspondingly depressed at my failures.  A fifteen-dollar poem would make them happy for a week; and when some of my editors were slow to pay-on the literary frontiers there is a great deal of this sort of procrastination—­ Uncle Gingersnaps was always hot to put the matter into the hands of his collectors, and commence legal proceedings in default.

Little by little I drifted into a curious intimacy with the Grossenstecks.  Their house by degrees became my refuge.  I was given my own suite of rooms, my own latch-key; I came and went unremarked; and what I valued most of all was that my privacy was respected, and no one thought to intrude upon me when I closed my door.  In time I managed to alter the whole house to my liking, and spent their money like water in the process.  Gorgeousness gave way to taste; I won’t be so fatuous as to say my taste; but mine was in conjunction with the best decorators in New York.  One was no longer blinded by magnificence, but found rest and peace and beauty.  Teresa and I bought the pictures.  She was a wonderfully clever girl, full of latent appreciation and understanding which until then had lain dormant in her breast.  I quickened those unsuspected fires, and, though I do not vaunt my own judgment as anything extraordinary, it represented at least the conventional standard and was founded on years of observation and training.  We let the old masters go as something too smudgy and recondite for any but experts, learning our lesson over one Correggio which nearly carried us into the courts, and bought modern American instead, amongst them some fine examples of our best men.  We had a glorious time doing it, too, and showered the studios with golden rain—­in some where it was evidently enough needed.

There was something childlike in the Grossenstecks’ confidence in me; I mean the old people; for it was otherwise with Teresa, with whom I often quarrelled over my artistic reforms, and who took any conflict in taste to heart.  There were whole days when she would not speak to me at all, while I, on my side, was equally obstinate, and all this, if you please, about some miserable tapestry or a Louise Seize chair or the right light for a picture of Will Low’s.  But she was such a sweet girl and so pretty that one could not be angry with her long, and what with our fights and our makings up I dare say we made it more interesting to each other than if we had always agreed.  It was only once that our friendship was put in real jeopardy, and that was when her parents decided they could not die happy unless we made a match of it.  This was embarrassing for both of us, and for a while she treated me very coldly.  But we had it out together one evening in the library and decided to let the matter make no difference to us, going on as before the best of friends.  I was the last person to expect a girl of eighteen to care for a