Then he gave up trying to say it and rushed out to buy the clothes. I laid out my note-books and tried to work. Half an hour later she appeared in the doorway, sleepy-eyed, arrayed in a suit of Norman’s pajamas. "Where’s he gone?" she yawned. "He had to go out for a few minutes."—I did not tell her why, as I thought he might enjoy surprising her with the new outfit. "He’ll be back pretty soon. If you ring the bell, Guiseppe will bring you some breakfast." "Where’s the bell?" she asked, looking on the table. "It’s on the wall. Press the button." "Oh, it’s a door be-e-e-l-l." It ended in a yawn. "If you wash your face, you may wake up enough to be hungry." "Aw! Go to hell." She thumbed her nose at me and departed. She had evidently entirely forgotten the dream which had brought the smile to her lips and troubled Norman. When Guiseppe brought in her breakfast, she came back and sat down. She had no greeting for me and I, thinking of nothing worth saying, went on with my writing. When there was nothing more to eat she began to talk with Guiseppe in rapid Italian. After a while he turned to me. "It’s very sad, Mr. Arnold. She comes from the same district in Lombardy where I was born." My nerves were on edge. I grunted that I did not see how that made it any sadder. He was surprised at my tone, and was, I think, on the point of reminding me that it was also in the same district that the Great Liberator had been born. But he thought better of it and went off to the kitchen in a huff. Nina wandered about the room, examining the bric-a-brac with what seemed to me a stupid interest. Her inspection finished, she helped herself to a cigarette and sat down cross-legged on the divan. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was minutely studying her pajamas. She would gently stroke the soft fabric, where it was drawn tight across the knee. The tassels on the belt string held her attention for several minutes. "Say," she broke out suddenly. "The old man says he burned up my clothes. Is it a lie?" "No. They are burnt. Your friend thought they were too dirty to wear." "What sort of a game is this?" she demanded, after blowing out a cloud of smoke. "This here suit of clothes is all right—it’s real silk, I guess. But—say—I don’t like parlor clothes. See? I won’t stand for...." I interrupted her, seeing at once what was in her mind. "Parlor clothes" are an old device—it was doubtless invented by some pander of ancient Nineveh. The proprietors of "disorderly houses" often keep their girls in bondage by withholding all decent clothes. The "parlor" costume, is one in which no woman would dare to go on the street. They are more effective means of guarding slaves than chains. I tried to reassure Nina, telling her why Norman had gone out.