His mother sat knitting by the window when he entered the apartment, and he saw that the table was already laid for dinner in the adjoining room.

“I ordered dinner a little earlier for you,” she explained as she laid aside the purple shawl while the ball of yarn slipped from her short, plump knees and rolled under the chair in which she sat.  Never in his recollection had he seen her put aside her knitting that the ball did not roll from her lap upon the floor, and now as he stooped to follow the loosened skein, he wondered vaguely how she had been able to fill her life with so trivial and monotonous an employment.

“I wish you could get out,” he said, as he sat down on a footstool at her feet and leaned his head affectionately against her knees.  “I don’t believe you’ve had a breath of air for a month.”

“Why, I never went out of doors in the snow in my life,” she responded, “at least not since I was a child—­and it always snows here except when it rains.  Do you know,” she pursued, with one of her mild glances of curiosity through the window, “I can’t imagine how the people in that big apartment over there ever manage to get through the day.  Why, the woman stays in bed every morning until eleven o’clock and then the maid brings her something like chocolate on a tray.  She wears such beautiful wrappers, too, I really don’t see how she can be entirely proper, and then she seems to fly in such rages with her husband.  There are some children, I believe,” she went on with increasing animation, “but they are never allowed to set foot in her room, and this afternoon when she dressed to go out I saw her try on at least four different hats and every single one of them green.”

“Poor creature!” observed Trent, with a laugh, “it must be worse than living under the omnipresent eye of Providence.  By the way, I told the man to come up and have a look at the radiator.  Did he do it?”

She laid her large, plump hand upon his head with a touch that was as soft as her ball of yarn.

“The manager came himself,” she replied, “but we got to talking and after I found out how much trouble he had had in life—­he lost his wife and two little boys all in one year—­I didn’t like to say anything about the heating.  I was afraid it would hurt his feelings to find I had a complaint to make—­he seemed so very nice and obliging.  And, after all,” she concluded amiably, “the rooms do get quite warm, you know, just about the time we are ready to go to bed, so all I need to do is to wear my cloak a little while when I first get up in the morning.  It will be a very good way to make some use of it, for I never expect to go out of doors again in this climate.”

“You’ll have to go once,” he said gayly, “to the first rehearsal of my play.  You can’t afford to miss it.”

“Oh, I’ll muffle up well on that occasion,” she answered.  “Did you see Mr. Benson this morning? and what did he say to you?”