The weather continued brutal, grew more severe rather, and smartly whipped him up the avenue and hurled him into the house. He arrived covered with snow, white as Santa Claus, and he heard by the voices at the stair head that he was welcome. The three were alone, the upper floor had been assigned to the drawing party. It was a big room full of forgotten things, tons of books that people had ceased to want to read, the linen chest, a capital hiding-place where a soft hand beneath the lid might prevent a second Mistletoe Bough tragedy. There were old trunks stored there, boxes which could not travel any more, one of which had been on a wedding journey and still contained, amongst less poetic objects, mother's wedding slippers. There was a dear disorder in the big room whose windows overlooked Madison and Fifth Avenues, and the distant, black wintry trees of Central Park. A child on either side of him, Fairfax surveyed his workshop, and he thought to himself, "I could model here, if I only had some clay." Bella had already installed herself. Their tables and their boards and a prodigal outlay of pencils and paper were in themselves inspiring. "There is no chair high enough for Gardiner," Bella said, "but we can build him one up out of books." "I'd wather sit on Cousin Antony's lap," said the little boy; "built-up books shake me off so, Bella." Both children wore blue gingham play aprons. Fairfax told them they looked like real workmen in a real studio, with which idea they were much delighted. "Gardiner looks like a charity child," said his sister, "in that apron, and his hair's too long. It ought to be cut, but I gave my solemn word of honour that I wouldn't cut it again." "Why don't you go to your famous Buckingham barber?" asked the cousin. "It's too far for Gardiner to walk," she returned, "and we have lost our last ten cents. Besides, it's thirty-five cents to get a hair-cut." Fairfax had placed the boy before his drawing board, and confiscated a long piece of kitchen bread, telling Bella that less than a whole loaf was enough for an eraser, extracted the rubber from Gardiner's mouth, and sat down by the little boy's side. "There's not much money in this house, Cousin Antony," Bella informed him when the seance opened. "Please let me use the soft pencils, will you? They slide like delicious velvet." Fairfax made an equal division of the implements, avoiding a scene, and made Bella a straight line across the page. "Draw a line under it." "But any one can draw a straight line," said Bella, scornfully, "and I don't think they are very pretty." "Don't you?" he answered; "the horizon is pretty, don't you think? And the horizon is a straight line." "Yes, it is," said Gardiner, "the howizon is where the street cars fall over into the sunset." "Gardiner's only six," said Bella, apologetically, "you mustn't expect much of him, Cousin Antony."