“Yes.  Popple always keeps his place at low-neck temperature, as if the portraits might catch cold.”  Van Degen glanced at his watch.  “Where are you off to?”

“West End Avenue, of course—­if I can find a cab to take me there.”

It was not the least of Undine’s grievances that she was still living in the house which represented Mr. Spragg’s first real-estate venture in New York.  It had been understood, at the time of her marriage, that the young couple were to be established within the sacred precincts of fashion; but on their return from the honeymoon the still untenanted house in West End Avenue had been placed at their disposal, and in view of Mr. Spragg’s financial embarrassment even Undine had seen the folly of refusing it.  That first winter, more-over, she had not regretted her exile:  while she awaited her boy’s birth she was glad to be out of sight of Fifth Avenue, and to take her hateful compulsory exercise where no familiar eye could fall on her.  And the next year of course her father would give them a better house.

But the next year rents had risen in the Fifth Avenue quarter, and meanwhile little Paul Marvell, from his beautiful pink cradle, was already interfering with his mother’s plans.  Ralph, alarmed by the fresh rush of expenses, sided with his father-in-law in urging Undine to resign herself to West End Avenue; and thus after three years she was still submitting to the incessant pin-pricks inflicted by the incongruity between her social and geographical situation—­the need of having to give a west side address to her tradesmen, and the deeper irritation of hearing her friends say:  “Do let me give you a lift home, dear—­Oh, I’d forgotten!  I’m afraid I haven’t the time to go so far—­”

It was bad enough to have no motor of her own, to be avowedly dependent on “lifts,” openly and unconcealably in quest of them, and perpetually plotting to provoke their offer (she did so hate to be seen in a cab!) but to miss them, as often as not, because of the remoteness of her destination, emphasized the hateful sense of being “out of things.”

Van Degen looked out at the long snow-piled streets, down which the lamps were beginning to put their dreary yellow splashes.

“Of course you won’t get a cab on a night like this.  If you don’t mind the open car, you’d better jump in with me.  I’ll run you out to the High Bridge and give you a breath of air before dinner.”

The offer was tempting, for Undine’s triumph in the studio had left her tired and nervous—­she was beginning to learn that success may be as fatiguing as failure.  Moreover, she was going to a big dinner that evening, and the fresh air would give her the eyes and complexion she needed; but in the back of her mind there lingered the vague sense of a forgotten engagement.  As she tried to recall it she felt Van Degen raising the fur collar about her chin.

“Got anything you can put over your head?  Will that lace thing do?  Come along, then.”  He pushed her through the swinging doors, and added with a laugh, as they reached the street:  “You’re not afraid of being seen with me, are you?  It’s all right at this hour—­Ralph’s still swinging on a strap in the elevated.”