THE VERY TIRED GIRL
floor and knocked peremptorily at Noreen's door.
In reply to the answer which he thought he heard, he turned the handle of the door and entered. The gas jet sizzled blatantly across the room, and a tiny blue flame toiled laboriously in a cooking lamp beneath a pot of water. The room was reeking strong with the smell of coffee, the rank brew that wafted him back in nervous terror to his college days and the ghastly eve of his final examinations. A coat, a hat, a mouse-gray sweater, a sketch-book, and a bunch of pencils were thrown together on the edge of the divan. Crouched on the floor with head and shoulders prostrate across her easel chair and thin hands straining at the woodwork was Noreen Gaudette. The startled face that lifted to his was haggard with the energy of a year rallied to the needs of an hour.
"I thought you told me to come in," said the Political Economist. "I came down to go to the fire with you."
Noreen was on her feet in an instant, hurrying into her hat and coat, and quaffing greedily at the reeking coffee.
"You ought to have some one to look after you," persisted the man. "Where's Mr. Dextwood?"
Noreen stood still in the middle of the floor and stared at him.
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