Returning to the department store they bought and brought away with them a kettle, a china teapot (“Fifteen cents in the basement,” Miss Mason instructed), three cups and saucers, six plates, a tin of floor-polish and a few knives, forks, and spoons. Meanwhile they had telephoned the hotel to send over the baggage. When the street car dropped them near the studio they found the two Italians seated on the steps, the furniture and baggage in the room, and Mrs. Corriani wiping her last window pane. “I shall want your husband again for this floor,” commanded the indefatigable Miss Mason, opening her tin of polish, “and his friend for errands.” They fell upon their task. An hour later the spinster dropped into the rocking chair. “Well, we've done it,” she said, “and I don't mind telling you I'm tuckered out.” Mary's voice answered from the sink, where she was sluicing her face and arms. “You've been a marvel--the whole thing has been Napoleonic--and I simply don't know how to thank you.” She appeared at the door of the closet, which was to serve as kitchenette and bathroom, drying her hands. “My, your face is like a rose! _You_ don't look tired any!” exclaimed the spinster. “As for thanks, why, it's been a treat to me. I've felt like I was a girl again. But we're through now, and I've got to go.” She rose. “I guess I'll enjoy my sleep to-night.” “Oh, don't go, Miss Mason, stay for tea and let my husband thank you too.” But the little New Englander again showed her simple tact. “No, no, my dear, it's time I went, and you and Mr. Byrd will want to be alone together your first evening,” and she pulled on her cotton gloves. At the door Mary impulsively put her arms round Miss Mason and kissed her. “You have been good to me--I shall never forget it,” she whispered, almost loath to let this first woman friend of her new life go. Alone, Mary turned to survey the room.