SNOW had drifted into the outer basement stairway of the green house, and there was a thin frosty bar inside the door of the basement hall. Miss Claes opened the door and looked out through the iron railings to the street. Snow was six inches deep and still falling. She took a deep breath appreciatively, as if she found some faint exquisite scent in the cold air. Presently she began sweeping at the doorway, and continued up the stone steps to the walk. Her arms and throat were bare, and the dark gray dress that she wore was of wool but the fabric very thin. Apparently Miss Claes chose to enjoy the chill of the winter morning. When she returned to her living room, the fire in the grate had been started and a small cup of black coffee was on the table. She sipped thoughtfully and then lit a cigarette, which she half finished, standing by the fireplace. The kindling had ignited the soft coal, but not without having shot out a spray of cinders over the cement hearth. Miss Claes swept the hearth unhurriedly. A cabinet of dishes across the room from the fireplace was full of color now from the light of the coals--vivid greens and bronzes, pomegranate reds. At length, she opened the door to the kitchen, where an Oriental stood by the big range. “May I serve your breakfast?” he asked. “Put it on a tray with something for Pidge. I’ll take it upstairs and perhaps she’ll join me. The child starves.” “Not in this house----” “She’s troublesome to do anything for, Nagar. She rebels against accepting any favor. I think she must have been forced to accept many favors from people outside, when she lived with her father. Was there a bit of boiled halibut left from last night?” “Yes.” “We’ll make a little omelet with a few flakes of fish in it. I’m sure she isn’t getting any money from her father, but she has kept up her rent in advance. Did she work all night?” “Her room was quiet after two, until I came down. Then I heard her typewriter as I swept the upper hall.” “It seems to be a race, Nagar, between the child and her book--which will finish the other? I love her spirit, but she isn’t taking care of herself.... Yes, we’ll put in these asparagus tips.... I think Mr. Musser believes that the world owes him a living, but finds it hard to collect, sometimes, with only metaphysics to offer. And now Pidge has flung herself to the opposite extreme; talks of earning her living in a factory, when her book is done. She’s a living protest against talking and not doing. We must be very good to her, Nagar.” Miss Claes brought a little creamy porcelain urn, and held it for him to fill with coffee from the larger pot. Nagar held the door open for her into the basement hall. A moment later on the top floor, she tapped at the second last door on the left. Pidge sat at her machine under the gaslight beyond the head of the cot.