to 17 McBurney Place and climbed the two flights of stairs to
her studio.

It was a disconsolate Barbara who received him. She had on her
work-apron, but she was not working. She sat in a deep chair, and
presented the soles of her small shoes to an open fire. Wilmot,
expecting to be scolded for disobeying orders, was relieved at being
received with visible signs of pleasure.

"You're just the person I wanted to see," she said, "just the one and
only Wilmot in the world."

"Are you dying?" he asked.

She laughed. "I'm discouraged. I've come to one of those times when you
just want to chuck everything. And there's a man at the bottom of it."

"Tell me," said Wilmot, "in words of two syllables."

"Well," said Barbara, "I woke up in the middle of the night out of a
dream. I dreamed I'd made a statue of Satan after the fall from heaven,
and that everybody said: 'Well done, Barbs, bully for you,' 'Got Rodin
skinned a mile'--it was you said that--and so forth and so on. I rose,
swollen with conceit, and made a sketch of the head I'd dreamed about,
so's not to forget the pose, and then I went to sleep again. Next day,
early, a man stopped me in Washington Square and begged for a dime. I
looked at him, and he had just the expression of the fallen Satan I'd
dreamed about--a beast of a face, but all filled with a sort of hopeless
longing to 'get back,' and remorse. I invited him to pose for me--not
for a dime--but for real money. Well, he fell for it. And for all that