She pictured Kathleen the fastidious, the dainty, perching on that pile of blankets; but if the girl had despised the poverty-stricken art-student, why was she so strenuous and persistent as to retaining his respect? Why had she left for the studio in the best of spirits, and returned distrait, behaving in an absent-minded manner ever since.
"Kathleen is a great deal more tenderhearted than she appears. I believe she pitied Phil so much it made her blue, and she couldn't bear to have me take away the only pretty things he had. Well, it seems I'm not going to!"
Mrs. Fabian even opened the closet door. A few suits of clothes hung within, but the rest was chaos; and in that chaos no welcome curves of a barrel were to be found. Her alert eyes made a hasty but comprehensive search of the room.
"The boy drank his coffee out of that mug!" she decided. "He is not in a mountain camp and he shall not live as if he were. He shall see that he is not dependent on Eliza Brewster for the decencies of life!"
Then followed her descent upon Pat, her catechism, and her magnificent departure.
Scarcely had Phil received the Irishman's account of the visit and gone up to his room that afternoon, when he heard a knocking on the stable door; and when Pat had opened it, a violent expletive from somebody.
Phil stood still to listen. Surely he could not be connected with the present invasion, whatever it might be. His circle of acquaintance in Gotham had come, done its best and its worst, and departed for all time.
"Misther Sidney, sor," yelled Pat from the foot of the stairs. "'T is the barr'l come back. Sure, and is it worth while totin' it up, whin it can't be at rest!"
"It isn't for me," called Phil, coming out in his little hallway. "I refuse to live in such a whirl of excitement."