"Yes, I know," continued Madame in her native tongue and more pleasantly, "yes, I know, but it is only for one week and if Mlle. Brandès could see our waiting list!" That settled the matter. She bowed her head and soon a maid had her handbag open in a small bedroom adjoining a large well-furnished room, containing a grand pianoforte. There were three windows at the side. "The piano, it is the property of Monsieur Invern. He is away till next week," said the too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine of the establishment was beneath. What she saw was the roof of the dining-room. Maison Felicé was one of those semi-hotels with table d'hôtes so popular in New York two or three decades ago. The cookery was French and notoriously good. Its fame spread to Virginia, where a friend of her mother's had secured, after the funeral of the poor woman, a letter of introduction to Madame Felicé. It was not easy to get into the hotel as a permanent guest. Easter should have accounted herself lucky. She didn't. She was too miserably homesick for a home that no longer existed to bother about the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of the dining-room, and through the fast dropping snow it was arrested by a gloomy wall. Again her heart sank. "My God!" she cried. "What a dismal prospect!" Without parents and in her wallet a hundred dollars she was alone in New York. The situation was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between two buildings, and from the windows of a hired apartment, made an ineradicable impression. For the first time in her life she felt absolutely friendless.