minutes) the tenant escorted her visitor to the door and stood watching
him as the powerful and unassertive motor departed. Dazedly the artist
descended from his plank to face her.

"Are you going?" he demanded.

A perfectly justifiable response to this unauthorized query would have
been that it was no concern of his. But there was that in Martin Dyke's
face which hurt the girl to see.

"Yes," she replied.

"With him?"

"Ye--es."

"He isn't your husband."

"No."

"You haven't any husband."

She hung her head guiltily.

"Why did you invent one?"

Instead of replying verbally she raised her arm and pointed across the
roadway to a patch of worn green in the park. He followed the indication
with his eyes. A Keep-Off-the-Grass sign grinned spitefully in his face.