“Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to appreciate⁠—the picture of the little pool in the art gallery, the one you called ‘Despair’? I have hung it in my own particular room upstairs⁠—my sitting-room⁠—so as to have it where I can see it always. I love it now. But,” she added, “I am not sure about the light. I think it could be hung to better advantage.” She hesitated a moment, then, with a sudden, impulsive movement, she turned to him.

“Won’t you come up with me, and tell me where to hang it?”

They took the little elevator to the floor above, and Laura led the artist to the room in question⁠—her “sitting-room,” a wide, airy place, the polished floor covered with deep skins, the walls wainscotted halfway to the ceiling, in dull woods. Shelves of books were everywhere, together with potted plants and tall brass lamps. A long Madeira chair stood at the window which overlooked the park and lake, and near to it a great round table of San Domingo mahogany, with tea things and almost diaphanous china.