"Don't you think he loves me?"
"I'm afraid you're too young for this kind of thing."
"I'm not young. I'm nearly seventeen, and lots of girls love and marry before that."
"Lots of other women are in love with Mr. Paxton, too," said Jane.
"You just say that to scare me!" cried Isabelle, and followed it up with much weeping.
Poor Jane endured a bad night, but as is the way with afflictions, it was finally over. Jerry arrived at nine, full of thanks to her, and carried the enfant terrible off to her school.
Jane hurried home, for this was to be a momentous day to her. Martin Christiansen had written that he was coming to see her at three o'clock in the afternoon, to talk over her work.
"Let me come to you in your own quarters, where you write and live, will you, my friend?" he had written her.
She had sent for him to come, and this was the day. She was not ashamed of the little room in the tenement house, where she had spent so many hours. She looked about it as she let herself in, trying to see it with his eyes—eyes used to beauty and comfort.
It was a square room, on the corner with two windows, west and south, hung with white curtains. It was small, but not cramped. The walls were calcimined white. The bed and dresser were white, as were the few chairs. A table, by one window, had on it a student lamp and neat piles of manuscript, while a dozen books were supported by book ends, against the wall. The rug was inexpensive, but dull in colour. It was scrupulously clean, and its bareness suggested deliberate asceticism rather than poverty.