The sun glittered on the upper windows of the clubs and hotels along Fifth Avenue; the west turned gold, then pink. Clouds of tiny moths came hovering among the wistaria blossoms; and high in the sky the metallic note of a nighthawk rang, repeating in querulous cadence the cries of water-fowl on the lake, where mallard and widgeon were restlessly preparing for an evening flight. "You know," she said, gravely, "a woman who over-steps convention always suffers; a man, never. I have done something I never expected to do--never supposed was in me to do. And now that I have gone so far, it is perhaps better for me to go farther." She looked at him steadily. "Your studio is a perfect sounding-board. You have an astonishingly frank habit of talking to yourself; and every word is perfectly audible to me when my window is raised. When you chose to apostrophize me as a 'white-faced, dark-eyed little thing,' and when you remarked to yourself that there were 'thousands like me in New York,' I was perfectly indignant." He sat staring at her, utterly incapable of uttering a sound. "It costs a great deal for me to say this," she went on. "But I am obliged to because it is not fair to let you go on communing aloud with yourself--and I cannot close my window in warm weather. It costs more than you know for me to say this; for it is an admission that I heard you say that you were coming to the wistaria arbor--" She bent her crimsoned face; the silence of evening fell over the arbor. "I don't know why I came," she said--"whether with a vague idea of giving you the chance to speak, and so seizing the opportunity to warn you that your soliloquies were audible to me--whether to tempt you to speak and make it plain to you that I am not one of the thousand shop-girls you have observed after the shops close--" "Don't," he said, hoarsely. "I'm miserable enough." "I don't wish you to feel miserable," she said. "I have a very exalted idea of you. I--I understand artists." "They're fools," he said. "Say anything you like before I go. I had--hoped for--perhaps for your friendship. But a woman can't respect a fool." He rose in his humiliation. "I can ask no privileges," he said, "but I must say one thing before I go. You have a book there which bears the signature of an artist named Marlitt. I am very anxious for his address; I think I have important news for him--good news. That is why I ask it." The girl looked at him quietly. "What news have you for him?" "I suppose you have a right to ask," he said, "or you would not ask. I do not know Marlitt. I liked his work. Mr. Calvert suggested that Marlitt should return to resume work--" "No," said the girl, "_you_ suggested it." He was staggered. "Did you even hear that!" he gasped. "You were standing by your window," she said. "Mr. Tennant, I think that was the real reason why I came to the wistaria arbor--to thank you for what you have done. You see--you see, I am Marlitt." He sank down on the seat opposite.