For more than an hour they kept at their music. The people who wondered why two so different personalities lived together had never seen them as they played. Neither of them was expert enough to perform in public, but they both passionately loved to make music. Eleanor's ridiculous posing, her querulous jealousy, very often jarred on Mabel's nerves. She sometimes thought of breaking up the household. But there were precious moments when their differences melted away and they enjoyed a rare and perfect harmony. Now and then Mabel escaped from her manifold engagements, and they went together to a concert or the Opera. Even more intense became their intimacy of emotion on the more frequent occasions when--as this evening--they played together. Such moments more than compensated for the daily frictions. To the jealous Eleanor they meant that Mabel's mind was cleansed of all preoccupations, when no one, no fancied duty came between them, when they could forget everything--everything--and be together. To Mabel such intimacies meant escape from all the heart-breaking routine of misery and struggle which was her daily life; they were interludes of unalloyed happiness, white moments in the sad business of living. Somehow the magic of the music soothed and lulled to sleep the great ache of social consciousness. She knew no other way to win forgetfulness from the overwhelming melancholy of Life. "Nell," Mabel said, putting her arms around Eleanor when at last they were going to bed, "do you want to be nice to me? Try to like this little Yetta. She interests me. And I'd like to have her stay here for a while, if you don't mind." "At least," Eleanor replied, "she's more decorative than most of your protégées." CHAPTER XII YETTA'S GOOD-BY Yetta woke at her accustomed hour. But instead of hearing the vague murmur of awaking life about her, there was a strange silence. She could not even hear any one snoring. She had a panicky feeling that perhaps they had been murdered. So getting out of bed, she tiptoed down the hall to Mabel's open door and was reassured to see her sleeping peacefully. Back in her own room she climbed into bed again. But it did not occur to her to go to sleep, now that it was so light--lighter than her old bedroom had been at noon. For a few minutes she occupied herself looking about, studying the pictures and _bibelots_. A narrow strip of old tapestry on the wall looked especially strange to her; it was badly faded, the picture in it was hard to make out. It seemed almost uncanny to be in bed after she was awake, so she got up and dressed, noiselessly. She sat down by the window and, pulling aside the curtain, looked out, up the street, to Washington Square. Here and there were blotches of faint green; the early spring had started a few buds. Yetta had seen very little green that was not painted. And the swelling buds of the little park seemed to typify all the strangenesses of the new world which was opening before her.