Barbara’s studio was a large, high-ceilinged room, whose north wall was almost entirely composed of glass.  It was singularly bare of those hangings, lanterns, antique cabinets, carved chairs, scraps of brocade, brass candle-sticks six or seven, feet high, samovars, pewter porringers, spinning-wheels, etc., etc., upon which so many artists appear to depend for comfort and inspiration.  Nor were there any notable collections of dust, or fragments of meals, or dirty plates.  There was neither a Winged Victory, a Venus de Milo, nor a Hermes after Praxiteles.  And except for the bust of Bubbles there was no example of Barbara’s own work by which to fish for stray compliments from the casual visitor.  Of the amenities the studio had but a thick carpet, an open fireplace, and a pair of plain but easy chairs.  Upon a strong tremorless table placed near the one great window, a huge lump of clay, swathed in damp cloths, alone served to denote the occupant’s avocation.

Off the studio, however, Barbara had a pleasantly furnished room in which she might loaf, make tea, or serve a meal, and this in turn was separated from the tiny room in which Bubbles slept, by a small but practical kitchen.

Barbara having withdrawn to roll up her sleeves and put on her work-apron, the legless beggar arrived in silence at the outer door of the studio, and having drawn a long breath, knocked, and Bubbles, not without an uncomfortable fluttering of the heart, pulled it open.  The boy and the beggar, being about the same height, looked each other in the face with level eyes.

“So,” said Blizzard, “this is what has become of you.  You were reported dead.”

“No, sir,” said Bubbles, “I wasn’t dead, only sick.  She brought me here, and had her own father and a nurse to take care of me.  And now I’m Buttons.”  And he went on glibly:  “Come right in; Miss Ferris is expecting you.  I guess she wants you to sit on the platform over in the window.”

Blizzard, having unslung his hand-organ and slid it with a show of petulance into a corner, crossed the room, swinging strongly and easily between his crutches, like a fine piece of machinery, climbed upon the model’s platform, and seated himself in the plain deal chair which already occupied it.  From this point of vantage he turned and looked down at the boy.

“So,” he said, “her father is Dr. Ferris.”

“He’s the Dr. Ferris,” Bubbles returned loyally.

“So—­so—­so,” said the legless one slowly, and he closed his eyes for a moment as if he was tired.  Then, opening them, and in abrupt tones:  “Pay you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Many people come here?”

Bubbles, who had gone to school—­not in the schools, but in the city of New York itself—­could lie without the least tremor or change of feature, and with remarkable suddenness.  “Lots and lots of ’em,” he said. “She’s well known.”