had a delicate scruple about intruding on Olga's privacy. Her recent air of abstraction implied that she was working out a problem; very likely she was still working it out,—no one knew better than he how long it takes to dig the tiniest scrap of truth from out the depths of oneself.
To silence his bootless thoughts he returned to his unfinished sketch of a tomato salad. The salad had long since been thrown out, having deteriorated into a condition unsuitable for posing, particularly in one's bedroom,—and he had only his memory to draw upon. Thus, he reflected, does one struggle up the long ladder to fame: while one wonders what the devil has happened to one's best girl, one probes into the recesses of a troubled memory to recapture the peculiar way in which a lettuce leaf curls round a slice of Bermuda onion.
There was a frantic yapping at the door of his bedroom, and he opened it to discover Mouche and Mme. Choiseul, with a petit bleu for him which had just been left by the facteur.
With a tight throat he tore it open, but it was not from Olga. It was from Mamie Mangum. Would he call in at her apartment this afternoon? There was something she wished to talk over with him.
What on earth could Mamie have to discuss with him? Hellgren? Surely Mamie couldn't be so fatuous as to misconstrue the man's plain decency to her!
But he lost no time in obeying the summons. Mamie
