This--this young
gentleman knows all about such things; he's a doctor. I--I'll be in the
next room, if there's anything else I can do for you."

"Is there no woman in the place?" inquired the young man.

"No. Only some girls who know nothing save the price of caramels and the
intricacies of tango. But I can find one inside of twenty minutes; I'll
go and get her."

"That's good," he assented cheerfully, going to his patient, who looked
at him in some fear.

But I reflected that the doctor seemed kindly, and by no means
overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him, so that I took the
time to slip on my boots, after which I ran to Eleventh Street, where
Frieda Long burrows in a small flat. Her studio, shared with another
woman, is farther uptown. Finally she opened the door, clad in a hoary
dressing-gown and blinking, for she had not been able to find her
spectacles.

"Who is it?" she demanded placidly, as if being awakened at two fifteen
in the morning had been a common incident of her life.

"It's Dave, just Dave Cole," I answered. "I want you, Frieda--that is to
say, a woman wants you badly, at my house--taking her share of the
primal curse. Don't know who she is, but Mrs. Milliken's away. She's
alone with a little half-hatched doctor, and--and----"

"Come in. Sit there in the front room. Cigarettes on that table. I'll
close the door and be with you in five minutes," she assured me
tranquilly.

I tried to smoke, but the thing tasted like Dead Sea fruit and I pitched
it out of the open window. An amazingly short time afterwards Frieda was
ready, bespectacled and wearing an awful hat. I think she generally
picks them out of rag bags.

As we walked along, she entertained me with her latest idea for a
picture. It would be a belted Orion pursuing the daughters of Pleione,
who would be changing into stars. She explained some of the difficulties
and beauties of the subject, and her conception of it, while I looked at
her in wonder. I must say that, from her stubby, capable fingers, there
flow pure poetry of thought and exquisiteness of coloring. Her form,
reminding one of a pillow tied none too tightly in the middle, her
tousled head containing a brain masculine in power and feminine in
tenderness, her deep contralto, might be appanages of some
back-to-the-earth female with an uncomfortable mission. But she's simply
the best woman in the world.

She panted to the top floor and, at my desire, followed me into