stood, furnished and immaculate, ready for tenancy.

In that which had been Roger Tabor's studio
sat Ariel, alone. She had caused some chests and
cases, stored there, to be opened, and had taken
out of them a few of Roger's canvases and set them
along the wall. Tears filled her eyes as she looked
at them, seeing the tragedy of labor the old man
had expended upon them; but she felt the recompense:
hard, tight, literal as they were, he had had
his moment of joy in each of them before he saw
them coldly and knew the truth. And he had
been given his years of Paris at last: and had seen
"how the other fellows did it."

A heavy foot strode through the hall, coming
abruptly to a halt in the doorway, and turning, she
discovered Martin Pike, his big Henry-the-Eighth
face flushed more with anger than with the heat.
His hat was upon his head, and remained there,
nor did he offer any token or word of greeting
whatever, but demanded to know when the work
upon the house had been begun.

"The second morning after my return," she
answered.

"I want to know," he pursued, "why it was
kept secret from me, and I want to know quick."