It was a long, low attic chamber, whose ceiling sloped cosily down over casement windows with wide sills. There was a fine fireplace, marred, however, by a small stove showing evidences of occasional culinary efforts. The results of Archie's twigging were very apparent; notably the golden-oak rocking-chair, the "chiffoneer" surmounted by the bronze lady with a spear. But she was more interested in the things which had belonged to him. As Ellen had told her, the place was littered with books, shelves, tables, and even window-sills. Joan examined these eagerly. There was a very shabby Shakespeare in a good edition, an old pocket Emerson, a new Rubaiyat, a brand-new "Alice in Wonderland" (which made her smile); but it was no scholar's library. Archie's tastes were not what he would have called "high-brow." The works of Marie Corelli and Conan Doyle predominated, with several school geographies and histories, and various treatises on the psychology of salesmanship. She found something rather touching in this collection of books, remembering that he had referred to it as his college career. She looked next for his pictures, those other sure indications of the inner man. But there were none, except the small photograph of herself in its elaborate frame, with a little vase attached holding fresh flowers. "Archie!" she protested, laughing, "I look like a Madonna in a shrine!" "One of those namby-pamby parties with a dinner-plate behind her head? Never saw one of them that could touch you!" he pronounced candidly. "I fear your correspondence-course has been neglecting Art," she murmured. "There was a fellow named Botticelli who did some very neat little things in that line. But come now, surely you've got some other pictures hidden away somewhere? No naughty ballet-girls kicking up their limb-legs? No bareback ladies? Or Parisiennes exhibiting wicked garters? Honest Injun?" He grinned sheepishly. "I did have," he admitted. "But I sort of lost my taste for 'em when you gave me that picture of you." She kissed him. "That's a prettier compliment than the little vase of flowers before my picture, dear!..." Archie had been standing at the door, watching her progress around his room with eyes that were almost incredulous. His room!--and she in it!... He felt that if he opened a window she might flutter out again, back into the world from which she came. Once, when he was very small, he had found a belated autumn butterfly in the street, and brought it home, and put it on a geranium-plant he had in the window, hoping it might like to spend the winter there. But in the morning it lay dead against the pane. Archie remembered that butterfly now, and shivered. She saw him. She ensconced herself in the largest and shabbiest of his three chairs and patted the arm of it invitingly. "Come over here, and let's really talk!" she commanded. He obeyed. "What shall we talk about?" "Tell me about your mother," said Joan.