"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."

"What drove you out?" he asked guiltily.

"Something--you can scarcely credit it--and I dare not tell the janitor
for fear he will think me--queer." She raised her distressed and lovely
eyes again: "Oh, please believe that I _did_ see a bright green mouse!"

"I do believe it," he said, wincing.

"Thank you. I--I know perfectly well how it sounds--and I know that
horrid people see things like that, but"--she spoke piteously--"I had