"There isn't the least sound as if he was putting away ANYTHING," said
Polly.
"I'll just HAVE to look," said Rose, whispering as softly as before. "We're awfully tired waiting, and keeping so still. It will help some to know what time it is, and if he sees me looking at the clock, perhaps he'll say he's 'MOST ready to stop painting."
She slipped from the divan, and tip-toed to the doorway, pushed the heavy hanging aside just enough to permit her to pass through. The portiere dropped heavily behind her, and Polly listened—listened.
"Oh, I hope he won't be angry. He ought not to after we've waited so long, but he's a great artist, and I s'pose Rose is disturbing him. I hope he won't scold. I didn't really tell her to go in and look at the clock, but I didn't tell her NOT to," thought Polly.
"Why DOESN'T she come back?" she whispered, a second after, when, as if in answer, the portiere was pushed aside, and Rose, a very frightened little Rose, hurried to Polly, her eyes startled, and her cheeks pale.
"He isn't there! Aunt Lois isn't there! We're alone in this studio, and I'd rather be alone ANYWHERE than here!" she cried, and they shuddered when the vacant rooms echoed her voice.
"But we don't have to STAY here!" cried Polly, "come! It's getting late, and we must hurry, or we'll be afraid to go down the streets alone."
"We CAN'T go!" cried Rose, "that's just the horrid part of it!"
"WHY can't we?"
As she asked the question Polly sprang to her feet, and clasping Rose's hand, drew her toward the door.