“I—­I am annoyed,” she said in a voice not perfectly under command.  “If you please, would you tell me whether there is such a thing as a pea-green mouse?”

Then he did a mean thing; he could have cleared up that matter with a word, a smile, and—­he didn’t.

“A green mouse?” he repeated gently, almost pitifully.

She nodded, then paled; he drew a big chair toward her, for her knees trembled a little; and she sat down with an appealing glance that ought to have made him ashamed of himself.

“What has frightened you?” inquired that meanest of men.

“I was in my studio—­and I must first explain to you that for weeks and weeks I—­I have imagined I heard sounds—­” She looked carefully around her; nothing animate was visible.  “Sounds,” she repeated, swallowing a little lump in her white throat, “like the faint squealing and squeaking and sniffing and scratching of—­of live things.  I asked the janitor, and he said the house was not very well built and that the beams and wainscoting were shrinking.”

“Did he say that?” inquired the young man, thinking of the bribes.

“Yes, and I tried to believe him.  And one day I thought I heard about one hundred canaries singing, and I know I did, but that idiot janitor said they were the sparrows under the eaves.  Then one day when your door was open, and I was coming up the stairway, and it was dark in the entry, something big and soft flopped across the carpet, and—­it being exceedingly common to scream—­I didn’t, but managed to get past it, and”—­ her violet eyes widened with horror—­“do you know what that soft, floppy thing was?  It was an owl!”

He was aware of it; he had managed to secure the escaped bird before her electric summons could arouse the janitor.

“I called the janitor,” she said, “and he came and we searched the entry; but there was no owl.”

He appeared to be greatly impressed; she recognized the sympathy in his brown eyes.

“That wretched janitor declared I had seen a cat,” she resumed; “and I could not persuade him otherwise.  For a week I scarcely dared set foot on the stairs, but I had to—­you see, I live at home and only come to my studio to paint.”

“I thought you lived here,” he said, surprised.

“Oh, no.  I have my studio—­” she hesitated, then smiled.  “Everybody makes fun of me, and I suppose they’ll laugh me out of it, but I detest conventions, and I did hope I had talent for something besides frivolity.”

Her gaze wandered around his room; then suddenly the possible significance of her unconventional situation brought her to her feet, serious but self-possessed.

“I beg your pardon again,” she said, “but I was really driven out of my studio—­quite frightened, I confess.”

“What drove you out?” he asked guiltily.

“Something—­you can scarcely credit it—­and I dare not tell the janitor for fear he will think me—­queer.”  She raised her distressed and lovely eyes again:  “Oh, please believe that I did see a bright green mouse!”