Between the pair who had arrived in Our Square on such friendly and promising terms, there was now no communication when they met.  She was steadfastly adhering to that “Never.  Never. Never!” What less, indeed, could be expected of a faithful wife insulted by ardent hopes of her husband’s early demise from a young man whom she had known but four hours?  So it might have gone on to a sterile conclusion but for a manifestation of rebellious artistic tastes on her part.  The Mordaunt Estate stopped at my bench to complain about them one afternoon when Martin Dyke, having just breakfasted, had strolled over to discuss his favorite topic. (She was, at that very moment, knitting her dainty brows over the fifteenth bunch of pink fragrance and deciding regretfully that this thing must come to an end even if she had to call in Terry the Cop.)

“That lady in Number 37,” said the Mordaunt Estate bitterly, “ain’t the lady I thought she was.”

Martin Dyke, under the impulse of his persistent obsession, looked up hopefully.  “You mean that she isn’t really Mrs. Leffingwell?”

“I mean I’m disappointed in her; that’s what I mean.  She wants the house front painted over.”

“No!” I protested with polite incredulity.

“Where’s her artistic sense?  I thought she admired your work so deeply.”

“She does, too,” confirmed the Estate.  “But she says it’s liable to be misunderstood.  She says ladies come there and order tea, and men ask the hired girl when the barbers come on duty, and one old bird with whiskers wanted to know if Ashtaroth, the Master of Destiny, told fortunes there.  So she wants I should tone it down.  I guess,” pursued the Mordaunt Estate, stricken with gloom over the difficulty of finding the Perfect Tenant in an imperfect world, “I’ll have to notice her to quit.”

“No; don’t do that!” cried the young man.  “Here!  I’ll repaint the whole wall for you free of charge.”

“What do you know about R. Noovo art?  Besides, paints cost money.”

“I’ll furnish the paint, too,” offered the reckless youth.  “I’m crazy about art.  It’s the only solace of my declining years.  And,” he added cunningly and with evil intent to flatter and cajole, “I can tone down that design of yours without affecting its beauty and originality at all.”

Touched by this ingenuous tribute hardly less than by the appeal to his frugality, the Estate accepted the offer.  From four to five on the following afternoon, Martin Dyke, appropriately clad in overalls, sat on a plank and painted.  On the afternoon following that the lady of the house came home at four-thirty and caught him at it.

“That’s going to be ever so much nicer,” she called graciously, not recognizing him from the view of his industrious-appearing back.

“Thank you for those few kind words.”

“You!” she exclaimed indignantly as he turned a mild and benevolent beam of the eye upon her.  “What are you doing to my house?”