hesitant. Her own visions, unformulated though they were, seemed of
somewhat different stuff, but she saw he could not conceive them other
than his, and yielded her doubts happily.

At the Pennsylvania Station they took a taxicab, telling the driver they
wanted a hotel near Washington Square. The amount registered on the meter
gave Mary an apprehensive chill, but Stefan paid it carelessly. A moment
later he was in raptures, for, quite unexpectedly, they found themselves
in a French hotel.

"What wonderful luck--what a good omen!" he cried. "Mary, it's almost
like Paris!" and he broke into rapid gesticulating talk with the desk
clerk. Soon they were installed in a bright little room with French
prints on the walls, a gay old-fashioned wall paper and patterned
curtains. Stefan assured her it was extraordinarily cheap for New York.
While she freshened her face and hair he dashed downstairs, ignoring the
elevator--which seemed to exist there only as an American afterthought
--in search of a packet of French cigarettes. Finding them, he was
completely in his element, and leant over the desk puffing luxuriously,
to engage the clerk in further talk. From him he obtained advice as to
the possibilities of the neighborhood in respect of studios, and armed
with this, bounded up the stairs again to Mary. Presently, fortified by a
pot of tea and delicious French rolls, they sallied out on their quest.

That afternoon they discovered two vacant studios. One was on a top floor
on Washington Square South, a big room with bathroom and kitchenette
attached and a small bedroom opening into it. The other was an attic just
off the Square. It had water, but no bathroom, was heated only by an open
fire, and consisted of one large room with sufficient light, and a large
closet in which was a single pane of glass high up. The studio contained