“I have been playing to your little boy, Mrs. Carr,” she said with the manner which Miss Polly had described as “flighty.”  “He came into my room when he heard the piano, and it was a real pleasure to play for him.”

“You are very good,” returned Gabriella, wondering vaguely who she was, for she was obviously the kind of woman people wondered about.  “I hope Archibald didn’t make himself troublesome.”

“Oh, no, I enjoyed him.  My name is Danton.  I am Miss Danton,” she added effusively, “and I’m so glad you have come into this apartment.  My room is the one next to yours.”

Then she fluttered off, with her look of spiritual hunger, and Gabriella closed the door and went on to her rooms, which were at the opposite end of the hail from the kitchen.  On the way she passed the pretty art student, who was coming from the bathroom, with a freshly powdered face and a pitcher of water in her hand, and again she was obliged to stop to hear news of the children.

“I’m so glad to have your little girl here.  I want to paint her.  I’m just crazy about her face,” said the girl, whose name she learned afterwards was Rosy Plover.  Though she was undeniably pretty, and had just powdered her face with scented powder, she had a slovenly, unkempt appearance which Gabriella, from that moment, associated with art students.  “If she’d only dress herself properly, she’d be a beauty,” she thought, with the aversion of one who is an artist in clothes.  She herself, after her long, hard day, was as neat and trim as she had been in the morning.  Her severe black suit was worn with grace, and hung perfectly; her crape collar was immaculately fresh; her mourning veil fell in charming folds over her hat brim.  “It’s a pity some one can’t tell her,” she mused, as she smiled and hurried on to the doubtful seclusion of her own end of the apartment.

With the opening of the door, the children fell rapturously into her arms, and while she took off her hat and coat, Miss Polly laid the table for supper in front of the ruddy glow of the fire.  On the fender a plate of buttered toast was keeping warm, a delicious aroma of coffee scented the air, and a handful of red carnations made a cheerful bit of colour in the centre of the white tablecloth.  It was a pleasant picture for a tired woman to gaze on, and the ruddy glow of the fire was reflected in Gabriella’s heart while she enfolded her children.  After a day in Madame’s hothouse atmosphere, it was delightful to return to this little centre of peace and love, and to feel that its very existence depended upon the work of her brain and hands.  The children, she realized, had never loved her so dearly.  In better days, when she was rarely separated from them for more than a few hours at a time, they had seemed rather to take her care and her presence for granted; but now, after an absence of nine hours, she had become a delight and an enchantment, something to be looked forward to and longingly talked about through the whole afternoon.