Bella Billings was draping herself ungracefully in the doorway of Wilfred’s room. For reasons of propriety she would never come all the way in. His room, being on the ground floor, was convenient to stop at. She liked Wilfred, perhaps because he allowed her to talk as long as she pleased. Few of her lodgers would. Wilfred found her conversation no less tiresome than the others did, but kept himself up with the reminder that he was a literary man, and Bella undoubtedly a character. She talked with a wasteful expenditure of breath that left her gasping halfway through a sentence, but unsilenced; and a display of pale gums that slightly shocked Wilfred. It seemed to him that he had never seen anything so naked as Bella Billings’ gums. She was an institution on the South side of Washington Square. Everybody had lodged with her one time or another. In addition to letting rooms unfurnished without service, she conducted a manufacturing business in a rear extension to her house. “Stella Shoulder-Brace Co.” the brass plate at the door announced; but “shoulderbrace” was a euphemism; what she made were various artificial contours for the female form. These objects were shaped on strange machines in the back premises like parts of iron women, polished. Bella—everybody south of Fourteenth street called her Bella behind her back—also painted Newfoundland dogs and cupids after Bouguereau in oils upon red velvet panels. Her subject at the moment was pernicious anæmia from which she had been a sufferer. She was describing to Wilfred how her fingernails and toenails had dropped off. Wilfred had heard it before; but was rendered patient by a design of using Bella for his own ends. As soon as an opening presented itself, he said carelessly: “Only six days to Christmas! What are you going to do to celebrate, Miss Billings?” Deprived of the support of her discourse, Bella blinked uncertainly. “Well . . . I don’t know,” she said with a giggle. “I suppose I’ll do nothing as usual.” “Everybody ought to have a big time, Christmas,” suggested Wilfred. Bella took a fresh pose in the doorway. “I’ve kinda got out of the way of social life,” she said. “Being so devoted to my art, and all.” “Why don’t you give a party?” “Ohh!” said Bella breathlessly, “I don’t know people well enough to give a party.” “You would before the party was over,” said Wilfred. “That’s what a party’s for.” “I don’t know enough people to ask.” “Small parties are the best. You know some girls.” “Oh, there wouldn’t be any fun in a hen party.” “I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said Wilfred; “let’s give a joint party during Christmas week, you and I. You ask the girls and I’ll bring the fellows.” Bella’s eyes widened, and she uncovered the pale gums. Then she nodded until Wilfred thought her head must snap off. “All right!” she said panting. “But why bother about any more girls? I’d love to entertain your friends.”