hotter flame and she
stopped singing.

She kept him waiting for twenty-five minutes, but his eyes silently
acquitted her of having wasted her time. They set off at once, Jane
agreeing pleasantly that it would be better to walk. Michael Daragh had
never seen her more alert and alive to the things about her. Nothing
escaped her darting glance,--the lyrical, first grass in the Square, the
stolid and patient tiredness of an Italian crone on a bench, the
pictorial quality of a hurdy-gurdy man, and yet, for all her chattiness,
the smart young person beside him seemed leagues upon leagues away from
him. He supposed, miserably, that she was aghast at him for this
preposterous demand upon her, but he was not penitent; he would have done
it again. His people's needs were to be met with anything he would buy,
borrow, or beg for them, and this radiant creature's beauty and light
were only given to her in trust, after all, to be dispensed and diffused.

"You've the step of a gypsy boy," he said presently, "for all the foolish
shoes you will be wearing. We're here now. 'Tis here he has his little
hole of a studio."

It was a decent enough place for working and living and Jane had no doubt
whatever that Daragh paid the rent. Their host was discovered bending
over a chafing dish which gave forth an arresting aroma. He was a sallow
youth with quick hands and too-bright eyes and he spoke in nervous jerks.
"How-do-you-do? How-do-you-do? Awfully good of you. Daragh says you are
interested in drawings--just look round, will you? I'll have this mess
ready in a minute. Daragh said he had to go up to town early, so we'll
have a combination supper tea." He flew to test the coffee, sputtering in
a percolator.

Jane, slipping out of her wrap, moved slowly and graciously about the
little room, well and pleasantly aware of Michael's anxious eyes upon
her. His wretched friend should have all the charm and cheer which he had
begged for him, but he himself should sit hungry at the feast. She picked
up a bold sketch in strong color and held it off with a very real
exclamation of interest. "This is _good_, Mr. Randal! This thing of the
old woman and pushcart! I like it a lot. And the bakeshop! It's good
stuff, all of it. What are you doing with it?"

"Nothing," said the young man, sullenly, his thin fingers beginning to
pluck at his face. "I've just started again. I've been ... ill. I suppose
Daragh's told you--about me?"

"Yes," said Jane, easil