, with a slight confusion,
he turned to Max, and his shaking hand went up instinctively to the old
black skullcap that covered his head.

"He wishes to greet you, monsieur, but he has not the strength." The
woman's voice dropped to tenderness, and she stooped and arranged the
rug about the shrunken knees. "If you will come this way, I will show
you the _salon_."

She moved quietly forward, opening a second door.

"You see, monsieur, it is all very convenient. In summer you can throw
the windows open and pass from one room to the other by way of the
balcony."

She moved from the bedroom into the _salon_ as she spoke, Max and the
lady of the pins following.

"See, monsieur! It is quite a good room."

Max, still subdued by the vision of age, went forward silently, but as
he entered this second room irrepressible surprise possessed him. Here
was an atmosphere he had not anticipated. A soft, if faded, carpet
covered the floor; a fine old buffet stood against the wall; antique
carved chairs were drawn up to a massive table that had obviously known
more spacious surroundings; while upon the walls, from floor to ceiling,
were pictures--pictures of all sizes, pictures obviously from the same
hand, on the heavy gold frames of which the name 'L. Salas' stood out
conspicuously in proof of former publicity.

"Madame!" He turned to the sad-faced woman, the enthusiasm of a
fellow-craftsman instantly kindled. "Madame! You are an artist? This is
your work?"

The woman caught the sympathy, caught the fire of interest, and a faint
flush warmed her cheek.

"Alas, no, monsieur! I am not artistic. It is my husband who is the
creator of these." She waved her hand proudly toward the walls. "My
husband is an artist."

"A renowned artist!"

It was the woman of the pins and scissors who spoke, surprising Max, not
by the sudden sound of her voice, but by her sudden warmth of feeling.
Again Blake's words came back--'These are the true citizens of the true
Bohemia!'--and he looked curiously from one to the other of the women,
so utterly apart in station, in education, in ideals, yet bound by a
common respect for art.

"It is my loss," he said, quietly, "that I did not, until to-day, know
of M. Salas."

"But no, monsieur! What would you know of twenty years ago? It is true
that then my husband had a reputation; but, alas, time moves
quickly--and the world is for the young!"

She smiled again, gently and patiently, and a sudden des