pavement with a tiny crystalline dust. It sifted against the windowpanes and drifted in heaps along the sill. The light at the window had nearly failed, and the girl bent low over her work. Presently she raised her head, brushing the curls from her eyes.
“Jack?”
“Dearest?”
“Don’t forget to clean your palette.”
He said, “All right,” and picking up the palette, sat down upon the floor in front of the stove. His head and shoulders were in the shadow, but the firelight fell across his knees and glimmered red on the blade of the palette-knife. Full in the firelight beside him stood a colour-box. On the lid was carved,
J. Trent. École des Beaux Arts. 1870.
This inscription was ornamented with an American and a French flag.
The sleet blew against the windowpanes, covering them with stars and diamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and froze again in fern-like traceries.
A dog whined and the patter of small paws sounded on the zinc behind the stove.
“Jack, dear, do you think Hercules is hungry?”
The patter of paws was redoubled behind the stove.
“He’s whining,” she continued nervously, “and if it isn’t because he’s hungry it is because—”
Her voice faltered. A loud humming filled the air, the windows vibrated.