pected, in the
natural course of things. Being something of an opportunist, he decided
to stop pondering over everything until he was in the presence of Mary,
and then to guide himself by his reception. He hoped that the Judge had,
as nearly as his capabilities permitted, lived up to the high standard
of the Gollop form, or, as Jimmy himself might have expressed it, that
the Judge "hadn't queered his pitch."

"It'd be just like him to make her hate me after one interview.
Considering how I hated myself after one meeting with him I couldn't
blame her," he admitted, dolefully.

With an unwonted trepidation he climbed the studio stairs and rapped on
the door.

"Come in." Her voice, sounding to Jimmy like a long unheard and
beautiful song, responded and he turned the handle and entered.

She was sitting in front of an easel and the forenoon light from outside
lent finer lights and shadows to her face as with her head half-turned
over her shoulder she regarded him.

"Oh, hello! It's you, is it?" she greeted, and then got to her feet
quickly, and stepped toward him as if to inspect him at shorter range,
or else as if wondering what mood he might be in at the moment. There
was a palpable uncertainty, curiosity, and perhaps reserve in her
attitude, as if she wondered whether he would begin talking pompous
platitudes or, on the contrary, breezing into some whimsy. He didn't
quite know what to say or do. He felt like a human interrogation point;
aware of the necessity of finding out something and adapting himself to
that knowledge.

He had kept away from her when discharged from the old employment and
sought her when his outlook was brightened by the new. He had tried to
find her when his dreams were flashing fast. He had anticipated this
interview. His imagination and love had so gilded her and her
surroundings with glamour that now, as he stood there, awkward,
irresolute, with hat in hand, everything seemed unreal. Everything
seemed reduced to hard realities. The fire that warmed the studio was a
real fire. The light that entered through the windows was real light.
The studio was but a real working room, and she but a real
flesh-and-blood girl standing there in a paint-soiled apron with a
palette in one hand and a brush in the other.

And then her voice brought him back to earth.

"For goodness sake! Can't you speak?" she asked, and extricated a thumb
from the palette, and turned to lay it and the paint brush on a lit