“Several of them,” she replied, “although I don’t know whether they should be called partners or boarders or adopted waifs.  They are all three of these things in a way.  It began with two people who sat at the same table with me those first miserable months when I was boarding.  One was a little cheerful wren of a woman from a little Western town, a Mrs. Boyd.  That is, she is cheerful now.  Then she was like a bird in a cage, pining to death for the freedom she had been accustomed to, and moping on her perch.  She came to New York to bring her niece, Lucy, who is all she has to live for.  Some art teacher back home told her that Lucy is a genius—­has the makings of a great artist in her, and they believed it.  She’ll never get beyond fruit-pieces and maybe a dab at china-painting, but she’s happy in the hope that she’ll be a world-wonder some day.  Neither of them have a practical bone in their body, whereas I have always been a sort of Robinson Crusoe at furnishing up desert islands.

“So I proposed to these two castaways that we go in together and make a home to suit ourselves.  We were so dead tired of boarding.  About that time we picked up Henry, and as Henry has a noble bank account we went into the project on a more lavish scale than we could have done otherwise.”

“Henry!” ejaculated Phil, who was watching the silhouette against the window with evident pleasure.

“Yes, Miss Henrietta Robbins, a bachelor maid of some—­well, I won’t tell how many summers, but she’s ‘past the freakish bounds of youth,’ and a real artist.  She’s studied abroad, and she’s done things worth while.  That group of fishermen on the Normandy coast is hers,” nodding towards the opposite wall, “and that old woman peeling apples, and those three portraits.  Oh, she’s the real thing, and a constant inspiration to me.  And she’s brought so much towards the beautifying of our Crusoe castle:  all these elegant Persian rugs, and those four “old masters,” and the bronzes and the teakwood carvings—­you can see for yourself.  Lucy wasn’t quite satisfied with the room at first.  She missed the fish-net draperies and cozy corners and the usual clap-trap of amateur studios.  But she’s educated up to it now, and it’s a daily joy to me.  On the other hand my broiled steaks and feather-weight waffles and first-class coffee are a joy to poor Henry, who can’t even boil an egg properly, and who hasn’t the first instinct of home-making.”

“You don’t mean to say that you do the cooking for this happy family!”

Joyce laughed at his surprised tone.  “That’s what makes it a happy family.  No domestic service problems.  With a gas range, a fireless cooker and all the conveniences of our little kitchenette, it’s mere play after my Wigwam experiences.  We have a woman come several times a week to clean and do extras, so I don’t get more exercise than I need to keep me in good condition.”

“But doesn’t all this devotion to the useful interfere with your pursuit of the beautiful?  Where do you find time for your art?”