"Did he say that?" inquired the young man, thinking of the bribes.
"Yes, and I tried to believe him. And one day I thought I heard about one hundred canaries singing, and I know I did, but that idiot janitor said they were the sparrows under the eaves. Then one day when your door was open, and I was coming up the stairway, and it was dark in the entry, something big and soft flopped across the carpet, and--it being exceedingly common to scream--I didn't, but managed to get past it, and"-- her violet eyes widened with horror--"do you know what that soft, floppy thing was? It was an owl!"
He was aware of it; he had managed to secure the escaped bird before her electric summons could arouse the janitor.
"I called the janitor," she said, "and he came and we searched the entry; but there was no owl."
He appeared to be greatly impressed; she recognized the sympathy in his brown eyes.
"That wretched janitor declared I had seen a cat," she resumed; "and I could not persuade him otherwise. For a week I scarcely dared set foot on the stairs, but I had to--you see, I live at home and only come to my studio to paint."
"I thought you lived here," he said, surprised.
"Oh, no. I have my studio--" she hesitated, then smiled. "Everybody makes fun of me, and I suppose they'll laugh me out of it, but I detest conventions, and I did hope I had talent for something besides frivolity."
Her gaze wandered around his room; then suddenly the possible significance of her unconventional situation brought her to her feet, serious but self-possessed.
"I beg your pardon again," she said, "but I was really driven out of my studio--quite frightened, I confess."