She thought of the dusty studio, of brooms and scrubbing brushes, but she
was already wise enough in wife-lore not to mention them. Mary came of a
race whose women had always served their men. It did not seem strange to
her, as it might have to an American, that the whole labor of their
installation should devolve on her.

With her back turned to him, she counted over their resources,
calculating what would be available when their hotel bill was paid.
Except for a dollar or two, Stefan had turned his small hoard over to
her. "It's all yours anyway, dearest," he had said, "and I don't want to
spend a cent till I have made something." They had spent very little so
far; she was relieved to realize that the five hundred dollars remained
almost intact. While Stefan continued to smoke luxuriously on the bed,
she jotted down figures, apportioning one hundred and fifty dollars for
six months' rent, and trying to calculate a weekly basis for their living
expenses. She knew that they were both equally ignorant of prices in New
York, and determined to call in the assistance of Miss Mason.

"Stefan," she said, taking up the telephone, "I'm going to summon a
minion." She explained to Miss Mason over the wire. "We are starting
housekeeping to-morrow, and I know absolutely nothing about where to
shop, or what things ought to cost. Would it be making too great demands
on your kindness if I asked you to meet me here to-morrow morning and
join me in a shopping expedition?"

The request, delivered in her civil English voice, enchanted Miss Mason,
who had to obtain all her romance vicariously. "I should just love to!"
she exclaimed, and it was arranged.

Mary then telephoned that they would take the studio--a technicality