an abandoned model throne, the closet a gas ring and a sink. The rent of
the first apartment was sixty dollars a month; of the second, twenty-
five. Both were approached by a dark staircase, but in one case there was
a carpet, in the other the stairs were bare, dirty, and creaking, while
from depths below was wafted an unmistakable odor of onions and cats.

Mary, whose father's rambling sunny house in Lindum with its Elizabethan
paneling and carvings had been considered dear at ninety pounds a year,
was staggered at the price of these mean garrets, the better of which she
felt to be quite beyond their reach. Even Stefan was a little dashed, but
was confident that after his interview with Adolph's brother sixty
dollars would appear less formidable.

"You should have seen my attic in Paris, Mary--absolutely falling to
pieces--but then I didn't mind, not having a goddess to house," and he
pressed her arm. "For you there should be something spacious and bright
enough to be a fitting background." He glanced up a little ruefully at
the squalid house they had just left.

But she was quick to reassure him, her courage mounting to sustain his.
"We could manage perfectly well in the smaller place for a time, dearest,
and how lucky we don't have to take a lease, as we should in England."
Her mind jumped to perceive any practical advantage. Already, mentally,
she was arranging furniture in the cheaper place, planning for a screen,
a tin tub, painting the dingy woodwork. They asked for the refusal of
both studios till the next day, and for that evening left matters
suspended.

In the morning, Stefan, retrieving his canvases from Miss Mason's flat,
sought out the dealer, Jensen. Walking from Fifth Avenue, he was