"I seen right away he didn't know this neighbourhood, Miss Judd, so I sez to him: 'What ye lookin' fer?'" "Thank you much, Billy," she smiled, closing the door on his monologue. "Is this your family?" he asked, laying his hand on Milly's head. "Yes. Her name is Militant, but we call her Milly, as a sort of tactful evasion. Protects her with the neighbours, who are, on the whole, conservatives." He smiled, laid his coat aside, and turned to look at her closely. She met his glance, flushing slightly. "I have to get used to you at home." He looked about him frankly. "Yes, this is you--virginal, cloistered. Where did you get that Salome?" he inquired. "I don't know. I understand Salome." She sat by the window, where the afternoon sun came in, the big cat asleep in her lap. He drew a chair near her. "I'm enormously curious about you. Where did you come from? Who were your people? How did you get here?" "It isn't a bit interesting. I was born in a little town named Warburton, in New Jersey. My father was John Judd. He had a grocery store and was a leading citizen. My mother was an actress." "Ah!" said Christiansen. "The company she was with went broke in our town, and she stayed on as cashier in Judd's store. He married her and I was the only child. She died when I was twenty; my father followed when I was twenty-two. I sold the grocery, paid the debts, and came to New York to be an author." She paused and turned her slow, rare smile on him. She had the ability to sit perfectly still, her hands quiet in her lap. Christiansen marked the trait; valued it. "What made you want to write?" "I had always been a reader. I read everything in the Warburton Public Library, I think. When I was in High School I wrote some stories which the local editor published, under an assumed name. My mother thought I had great talent, and I was tempted to agree with her," she smiled. "How long did your funds last, in New York?" "Not long. I did not have much in the first place. I realized before the money was gone that I must take any job I could find. I was not prepared to do anything." "Same old story. How did you get work in the studios?" "Answered Mr. Paxton's advertisement. I've been there ever since. I didn't care what I did, just so I made a living. My real life is here, with my true work." "Just what do you do in the studios?" "Anything--everything. Mend their clothes, clean palettes, sweep the studios, make curtains, look after them when they're sick, cook for them when they're busy." "No wonder you know them so well." It was his first reference to her work. She waited breathlessly, but he returned to her past again. "Were you never tempted to take up your mother's profession?"