surprise him, or wait until after the interview with
Frohman. She finally decided that she could not wait until four o'clock,
but that she would give Jarvis no hint of the coming momentous
appointment. As she came into the city, she noted the bright, crisp
winter day with pleasure--very different from that spring day when she
and Jarvis had entered the gates together. But to-day was to-day and she
was glad of it.

She took a taxi, with that sense of affluence which attacks one like a
germ on entering the City of Spenders. The driver looked at her again as
she gave the address. The trim, smart little figure did not look much
like the neighbourhood she was headed for. Probably one of these
settlement workers, he decided.

At first Bambi did not notice where she was going, so happy was she to
be back in this gay city.

"I know you're a Painted Lady, but you're so pretty!" she smiled, as the
streets ran by. Downtown and still downtown the taxi sped, past the
Washington Square district, which they had explored together, shooting
off at a tangent into the kind of neighbourhood where Bambi had fallen
sick at the sights and the filth. They drew up before an old-fashioned
house, with dirty steps and windows and curtains. It looked like a
better-class citizen on the down grade, beside the neighbouring houses,
which were frankly low-class. The driver opened the door and Bambi
stared up at the place.

"Why, this can't be it!" she exclaimed.

"This is the number you gave me."

"Wait," she said. She ran up the rickety steps, her heart sick with
fear. She rang and waited and rang. Finally, a dirty head appeared out
of an upstairs window.

"What d'yer want?" a voice demanded.

"Does Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn live here?"

"Three flights up-back," and the window slammed.

"Wait for me, driver," she called. She began to climb the dirty stairs,
tears in her eyes.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said, over and over again.

She knocked at the third-floor back, with no response; so she opened the
door and entered. One dark area window, a bed, a chair, a dresser, an
improvised table with piles of manuscript. It was cleaner than the awful
entrance suggested. But, oh, it was pitiful! Such a place for a dreamer!
Bambi leaned her head on the dresser and sobbed. That he had been
reduced to this, that he had never told them, that he had refused the
Professor's money and chosen poverty! It nearly killed her, while it
thrilled her with a pride