He dropped his hand on the table and began tracing arabesques with his pencil-point. Then his capricious fancy blossomed into a sketch of his neighbor--a rapid idealization, which first amused, then enthralled him. And while his pencil flew he murmured lazily to himself: "You don't know what I'm doing, do you? I wonder what you'd do if you did know?... Thank you, ma belle, for sitting so still. Won't you smile a little? No?... Who are you? What are you?--with your dimpled white hands framing your face.... I had no idea you were half so lovely! ... or is it my fancy and my pencil which endow you with qualities that you do not possess?... There! you moved. Don't let it occur again."... He passed a soft eraser over the sketch, dimming its outline; picked out a brush and began in color, rambling on in easy, listless self-communion: "I've asked you who you are and you haven't told me. Pas chic, ca. There are thousands and thousands of dark-eyed little things like you in this city. Did you ever see the streets when the shops close? There are thousands and thousands like you in the throng;--some poor, some poorer; some good, some better; some young, some younger; all trotting across the world on eager feet. Where? Nobody knows. Why? Nobody knows. Heigh-ho! Your portrait is done, little neighbor." He hovered over the delicate sketch, silent a moment, under the spell of his own work. "If you were like this, a man might fall in love with you," he muttered, raising his eyes. The development of ideas is always remarkable, particularly on a sunny day in spring-time. Sunshine, blue sky, and the perfume of the wistaria were too much for Tennant. "I'm going out!" he said, abruptly, and put on his hat. Then he drew on his gloves, lighted a cigarette, and glanced across at his neighbor. "I wish you were going, too," he said. His neighbor had risen and was now standing by her window, hands clasped behind her, gazing dreamily out into the sunshine. "Upon my word," said Tennant, "you are really as pretty as my sketch! Now isn't that curious? I had no idea--" A rich tint crept into his neighbor's face, staining the white skin with carmine. "The sun is doing you good," he said, approvingly. "You ought to put on your hat and go out." She turned, as though she had heard his words, and picked up a big, black straw hat, placing it daintily upon her head. "Well!--if--that--isn't--curious!" said Tennant, astonished, as she swung nonchalantly towards an invisible mirror and passed a long, gilded pin through the crown of her hat. "It seems that I only have to suggest a thing--" He hesitated, watching her. "Of course it was coincidence," he said; "but--suppose it wasn't? Suppose it was telepathy--thought transmitted?" His neighbor was buttoning her gloves.