Barbara's studio was a large, high-ceilinged room, whose north wall was
almost entirely composed of glass. It was singularly bare of those
hangings, lanterns, antique cabinets, carved chairs, scraps of brocade,
brass candle-sticks six or seven, feet high, samovars, pewter
porringers, spinning-wheels, etc., etc., upon which so many artists
appear to depend for comfort and inspiration. Nor were there any notable
collections of dust, or fragments of meals, or dirty plates. There was
neither a Winged Victory, a Venus de Milo, nor a Hermes after
Praxiteles. And except for the bust of Bubbles there was no example of
Barbara's own work by which to fish for stray compliments from the
casual visitor. Of the amenities the studio had but a thick carpet, an
open fireplace, and a pair of plain but easy chairs. Upon a strong
tremorless table placed near the one great window, a huge lump of clay,
swathed in damp cloths, alone served to denote the occupant's avocation.

Off the studio, however, Barbara had a pleasantly furnished room in
which she might loaf, make tea, or serve a meal, and this in turn was
separated from the tiny room in which Bubbles slept, by a small but
practical kitchen.

Barbara having withdrawn to roll up her sleeves and put on her
work-apron, the legless beggar arrived in silence at the outer door of
the studio, and having drawn a long breath, knocked, and Bubbles, not
without an uncomfortable fluttering of the heart, pulled it open. The
boy and the beggar, being about the same height, looked each other in
the face with level eyes.

"_So_," said Blizzard, "this is what has become of you. You were
reported dead."