One evening he came upon her bending over a table in their sitting room, tracing a fine design on cambric with a pencil. Something in her pose and figure opened a forgotten door of memory; he watched her puzzled for a moment, then with a sudden exclamation ran upstairs, and returned with a pad of paper and a box of water-color paints. He was visibly excited. “Here, Mary,” he said, thrusting a brush into her hand and clearing a place on the table. “Do something for me. Make a drawing on this pad, anything you like, whatever first comes into your head.” His tone was eagerly importunate. She looked up in surprise, “Why, you funny boy! What shall I draw?” “That's just it--I don't know. Please draw whatever you want to--it doesn't matter how badly--just draw something.” Mystified, but acquiescent, Mary considered for a moment, looking from paper to brush, while Stefan watched eagerly. “Can't I use a pencil?” she asked. “No, a brush, please, I'll explain afterwards.” “Very well.” She attacked the brown paint, then the red, then mixed some green. In a few minutes the paper showed a wobbly little house with a red roof and a smudged foreground of green grass with the suggestion of a shade-giving tree. “There,” she laughed, handing him the pad, “I'm afraid I shall never be an artist,” and she looked up. His face had dropped. He was staring at the drawing with an expression of almost comic disappointment. “Why, Stefan,” she laughed, rather uncomfortably, “you didn't think I could draw, did you?” “No, no, it isn't that, Mary. It's just--the house. I thought you might--perhaps draw birds--or flowers.” “Birds?--or flowers?” She was at a loss. “It doesn't matter; just an idea.” He crumpled up the little house, and closed the paintbox. “I'm going out for awhile; good-bye, dearest”; and, with a kiss, he left the room. Mary sat still, too surprised for remonstrance, and in a moment heard the bang of the flat door. “Birds, or flowers?” Suddenly she remembered something Stefan had told her, on the night of their engagement, about his mother. So that was it. Tears came to her eyes. Rather lonely, she went to bed. Meanwhile Stefan, his head bare in the cold wind, was speeding up the Avenue on the top of an omnibus. “Houses are cages,” he said to himself. For some reason, he felt hideously depressed. * * * * * “I called on Miss Berber last evening,” Stefan announced casually at breakfast the next morning. “Did you?” replied Mary, surprised, putting down her cup. “Well, did you have a nice time?” “It was mildly amusing,” he said, opening the newspaper. The subject dropped. II