of refinement in these women of the houses stayed him. 
He wanted contact which was more intimate, subtle, 
individual, personal. 
Well, on top of this came Mrs. Semple—Lillian Semple, 
who was nothing to him save an ideal ; but she cleared 
up certain of his ideas in regard to women. She was not 
forceful and vigorous like these other women—raw, brutal 
contraveners of accepted theories and notions; but for 
that very reason, because she was artistic and nothing 
more, he liked her. She was not subtle, quick, or daring; 
but because he was possessed of these things himself in a 
secret, unsuggested way, he could afford to favor the beauty 
that was not subtle or remarkably efficient. Just quiet, 
refined beauty was fascinating, and in Mrs. Semple he 
thought he saw this. 
The home of Mr. and Mrs. Semple was fortunately, or, 
perhaps it would be better to say, curiously, located not 
so very far from his own, on North Front Street, in the 
neighborhood of what is now No. 956. It was a pretty two- 
story brick house, and, unlike so many of the older houses 
in the down-town section, was set in a yard. It had, in 
summer, quite a wealth of green leaves and vines. The 
little side porch which ornamented its south wall com- 
manded a charming view of the river, and all the win- 
dows and doors were topped with round arches and set 
with lunettes of small-paned glass. The interior of the 
house was not so very artistic. It was about what the 
interior of a house owned by a manufacturing and 
a retail merchant would ordinarily be. There was no 
sense of artistic harmony to the furniture, though it was 
new and good. The pictures were—well, simply pictures. 
There were no books to speak of—the Bible, a few current 
novels, some of the more significant histories, and a col- 
lection of antiquated odds and ends in the way of books 
inherited from relatives. The china was nice of a deli- 
cate pattern. The carpets and wall-paper were too high in 
key. So it went. Still, the personality of Lillian Semple