, her hands quiet in her lap. Christiansen marked
the trait; valued it.

"What made you want to write?"

"I had always been a reader. I read everything in the Warburton Public
Library, I think. When I was in High School I wrote some stories which
the local editor published, under an assumed name. My mother thought I
had great talent, and I was tempted to agree with her," she smiled.

"How long did your funds last, in New York?"

"Not long. I did not have much in the first place. I realized before the
money was gone that I must take any job I could find. I was not prepared
to do anything."

"Same old story. How did you get work in the studios?"

"Answered Mr. Paxton's advertisement. I've been there ever since. I
didn't care what I did, just so I made a living. My real life is here,
with my true work."

"Just what do you do in the studios?"

"Anything--everything. Mend their clothes, clean palettes, sweep the
studios, make curtains, look after them when they're sick, cook for them
when they're busy."

"No wonder you know them so well."

It was his first reference to her work. She waited breathlessly, but he
returned to her past again.

"Were you never tempted to take up your mother's profession?"

"No. You see, I had always been told how hard that life was, and I
suppose I rather shared my father's belief that it wasn't respectable.
Warburton found my mother its most interesting citizen, while it
disapproved of her entirely. She was just a simple, frail woman, but to
Warburton she was a brand plucked from the burning, and her past was
never to be forgotten."

"Was your father in love with her, or was it the romance of her
profession which attracted him?"

"Father was very religious. I think he married her to save her soul. He
was as kind to her as he knew how to be, but he never understood her."

"And you?"

"I loved her and took care of her. She was my child from the time I was
a baby. I acted as interpreter to my father, whom I understood, too, in
a way. He was a dour, silent man, but just."

"I get the picture of both of them," he nodded.

"Can I write?" she demanded bluntly.

"How long have you been working at that desk?"

"Five years."

She drew a big packing box from under the bed. It was full of
manuscripts. He looked at it with deep interest.

"You've told nobody, offered nothing for sale in those years?"

"Not since my first editor, who gave me such good advice."

"It is incredible