A week later Joan started for New York, a closely packed suitcase in her hand, a closely packed trunk in the baggage car ahead, and some hurting memories to bear her company on the way. Memories of Nancy's tears. How Nancy could cry--once the barriers were down! And worse than Nancy's tears were Doris's smiles. Joan understood the psychology of smiles--as she remembered, her proud head was lowered and she was surprised to find that _she_ was shedding tears. "But it's all part of the price of freedom!" At last Joan dried her eyes. "And I'm willing to pay." So Joan travelled alone up to town, and it was a wet, slippery night when she raised the knocker on Sylvia Reed's green-painted door and let it fall. The door opened at once and disclosed the battle-ground of young genius. The old room was dim, for Sylvia had been toasting bacon and bread by the open fire and she needed no more light than the coals gave. Sylvia wore a smock and her hair was down her back. She looked about twelve until she fixed her eyes upon you, then she looked old; too old for a girl of twenty-four. "Joan! Joan!" was all she said as she drew Joan in. Then, after a struggle, "Do you mind if I--sob?" "No, I'm going to do it myself." And Joan proceeded to do so and remembered Nancy. "I'm so--happy!" she gulped. "I was never so happy in my life. I feel as if I'd got hatched, broken through the shell!" "You have," cried Sylvia, unevenly. "We're going to--to conquer everything! Come in your room, Joan, shed as much as you like. I expected you this morning. I have only bacon and eggs--shall we go out to eat?" "Go out? Heavens, no! And I adore bacon and eggs. Sylvia, I have edged into glory!" "You have, Joan--edged in, that's about it." After the meal before the fire they cleared things away, and then they talked far into the night. Sylvia had already laid emphasis upon her small order. "And really, Joan, that's great," she explained; "many a girl has to wait longer. Some day I'm going to be hung in the best exhibitions in town, but as a starter a magazine is nothing to be sneered at. I'm modelling, too--I have a duck of an idea for a frieze--only I'm not telling anybody about that--it's too ambitious. What are you going to do, Joan?" This sudden question made Joan stare.