Studying her unobtrusively from his characteristically drooping position, Cyrus wondered what this half-fairy, half-flower, with the decisive manner of a mistress of destiny, was doing in so grubby an environment. On her part, she reflected that she had seldom encountered so homely a face, and speculated as to whether that was its sole claim to interest. Then he lifted his head; his eyes met hers, and she modified her estimate, substituting for “homely,” first “queer,” then “quaint,” and finally “unusual.” Also there was something impersonally but hauntingly reminiscent about him; something baffling and disconcerting, too. The face wasn't _right_. “Do you mind answering some questions?” she asked. “Depends,” he replied guardedly. “Well, I'll try. Do you live here?” “Just around the corner.” “What do you do?” “Nothing much.” “How long have you been doing it?” “Too long.” “Why don't you stop?” For the second time Cyrus the Gaunt lifted his long, thin face and looked her in the eye. “Beautiful Incognita,” he drawled with mild impertinence, “did you _write_ the Shorter Catechism or are you merely plagiarizing?” “Oh!” she said. Surprise and the slightest touch of dismay were in the monosyllable. “I'm afraid I've made a mistake. I thought--the policeman said you were a down-and-outer.” “I'm the First Honorary Vice-President of the Life Branch of the Organization.” He slumped back into his former attitude. Again she studied him. “No, I don't understand,” she said slowly. But the dehumanizing tone had gone from the soft voice. Cyrus began to rescue his personality from her impersonal ignoring of it. He also felt suddenly a livelier interest in life. Then, unexpectedly, she turned his flank. “You lurk and stare at my house in the dark,” she accused. “Which house?” he asked, startled. “You know quite well. You shouldn't stare at strange houses. It embarrasses them.” “Is that the miniature mansion with the little bronzes of dancing street-children in the windows?” She nodded. “Why shouldn't I stare? There's a secret in that house!” “A secret? What secret?” “The secret of happiness. Those dancing kiddies have got it. I want it. I want to know what makes'em so happy.” “I do,” said the girl promptly. “Yes. I shouldn't be surprised,” he assented, lifting his head to contemplate her with his direct and grave regard. “Do you live there with them?” “They're mine. I model them. I'm a sculptor.” “Good Lord! You! But you're a very good one, aren't you?--if you did those.” “I've been a very bad one. Now I'm trying to be a very good one.” A gleam of comprehension lit his eye. “Oh, then it's as a subject that you thought I'd do. You wanted to sculp me.” “Yes, I do. For my collection. You see, I've adopted this Square.”