"Well," replied Pennoyer, "I don't know." "Yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead and tell me." "Well----" "Go ahead." "Well, she is rather handsome, you know." "Yes," said Florinda, dejectedly, "I suppose she is." After a time she cleared her throat and remarked indifferently, "I suppose Billie cares a lot for her?" "Oh, I imagine that he does--in a way." "Why, of course he does," insisted Florinda. "What do you mean by 'in a way'? You know very well that Billie thinks his eyes of her." "No, I don't." "Yes, you do. You know you do. You are talking in that way just to brace me up. You know you are." "No, I'm not." "Penny," said Florinda thankfully, "what makes you so good to me?" "Oh, I guess I'm not so astonishingly good to you. Don't be silly." "But you are good to me, Penny. You don't make fun of me the way--the way the other boys would. You are just as good as you can be.--But you do think she is beautiful, don't you?" "They wouldn't make fun of you," said Pennoyer. "But do you think she is beautiful?" "Look here, Splutter, let up on that, will you? You keep harping on one string all the time. Don't bother me!" "But, honest now, Penny, you do think she is beautiful?" "Well, then, confound it--no! no! no!" "Oh, yes, you do, Penny. Go ahead now. Don't deny it just because you are talking to me. Own up, now, Penny. You do think she is beautiful?" "Well," said Pennoyer, in a dull roar of irritation, "do you?" Florinda walked in silence, her eyes upon the yellow flashes which lights sent to the pavement. In the end she said, "Yes." "Yes, what?" asked Pennoyer sharply. "Yes, she--yes, she is--beautiful." "Well, then?" cried Pennoyer, abruptly closing the discussion. Florinda announced something as a fact. "Billie thinks his eyes of her." "How do you know he does?" "Don't scold at me, Penny. You--you----" "I'm not scolding at you. There! What a goose you are, Splutter! Don't, for heaven's sake, go to whimpering on the street! I didn't say anything to make you feel that way. Come, pull yourself together." "I'm not whimpering." "No, of course not; but then you look as if you were on the edge of it. What a little idiot!" CHAPTER XXXII. When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiled stones, beaten by myriad strange feet, were told of the dark, silent forests where the flakes swept through the hemlocks and swished softly against the boulders. In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful, interlocked fingers. He was gazing sourly at his finished picture. Once he started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over his shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced to and fro, smoking belligerently and from time to time eying it. The helpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him. Hollanden entered and stopped abruptly at sight of the great scowl. "What's wrong now?" he said.