“Don’t you _dare_ drop those,” the young woman was saying. “The frames are valuable anyway!” It was an armful of large paintings that was being carried out. The young woman, a rather impressive little person, with a sturdy, plump figure, and short curly black hair, held a cigarette in her hand. A painter? Did artists live in these places? Felix glanced past the girl into the room beyond. “May I look in?” he asked the girl. “Sure,” she said indifferently. Felix stepped inside. It was a large room—a huge room, unpartitioned except by a flimsy screen about eight feet high which cut off the rear portion. Evidently the occupant had slept back there, and used the front part for a studio. “You’re leaving?” he asked the girl. She shrugged her shoulders. “Looks like it,” she said. “Is it for rent?” Of course, Rose-Ann would not want to live in a place like that, but—it interested him. “Yes, it’s for rent, if anybody wants it,” she said lazily. “What’s the matter with it?” asked Felix. She seemed to become a little more aware of him. “Are _you_ thinking of taking it?” she asked. “Maybe,” said Felix. “If you do, maybe I could persuade you to take a few things off my hands.” “What’s wrong with the place?” he countered. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” she said. “Then why are you leaving?” “Because,” she said. “I don’t want to build my own fires. I can’t paint and look after a stove, too. Want to see my stove? It’s a good stove. I’m moving to a steam-heated studio-apartment, and I shan’t want it any more. There it is—” “Oh, a Franklin stove!” he said. “Yes, a darn nice little stove. Do you paint?” “No.” “Write?” “Yes.” “You’d like this place.... And it’s dirt cheap.” “How much?” “You wouldn’t believe it. Twelve dollars.” “Twelve dollars a what?” “A month!” “Twelve dollars a month?” Why, his hall bedroom over on Canal street had cost more than that.... “Yes, and look at the space. It’s really a find. If you don’t mind living in a kind of bohemian way. I’m bohemian enough, God knows, but when I get to painting I let my fire go out.” “I didn’t know,” said Felix, “that there were such places as this in Chicago.” “There aren’t. There’s just these. Here and around the corner. They were put up for shops at the time of the World’s Fair—just temporary structures—and they’ve never bothered to tear ’em down. There’s been a bunch of artists living here ever since; a place like this for twelve dollars is a godsend to an artist. If this was spring, it wouldn’t be for rent—there’d be a dozen after it. You’re in luck.” She resumed her neglected cigarette to keep it from going out. “Well, what do you say? Want my stove?” “I’ll—have to see my wife about it,” said Felix. “She’s waiting for me over in the Park.” No, Rose-Ann would not like it, but— “Your wife? Then, good-_night_! No Christian female would live in these diggings for a week—unless she was an artist’s wife and couldn’t help herself.”