man tremulously concerned about his food was a humorous and pitiable spectacle.
Now as she lay reading she heard from the kitchen the melancholy "keen" of an Irish melody rising and falling monotonously. It was a good sign; Mary always crooned this dirge when she was happy, and Teresa endured it philosophically. But it made her feel herself rather lazy; she, too, had her work to do. Basil had gone away early, after taking his coffee with her in her room. Even Basil was working. The roar of the city without penetrated her solitude a humming, disquieting bass note with an occasional sharp crescendo. It was necessary to be active; it was impossible to read the Arabian Nights after ten o'clock. She got up, took her bath, and dressed quickly; saw that the drawing-room was dusted; arranged the flowers, dusted the piano, which Mary invariably forgot, put a match to the fire, wrote several notes of thanks, posted up her accounts; and then, having a clear hour before her and a rush of energy in her veins, she put on her hat and grey furs, for the morning was cool, and went out. The air was clear and sparkling; she drew a long breath as the doors of the flat-building closed behind her and shut in the be-rugged entrance-hall, the potted palms, and the negro boy-in-buttons. The tiny leaves on the trees shivered in the wind, and Teresa, breathing it in, felt as though she were
