garret was theirs.

In one corner stood a small table on which were some tantalizing books
and the same lamp. Another corner was filled by the littlest, oldest
imaginable of six-octave pianos, the mythical piano ancestor; on it were
piled some yellowed folios, her music once. Thus two different rays of
civilization entered their garret and fell upon the twin mountain-peaks
of the night--books and music.

Toward these she wished regularly to lead him as darkness descended over
the illimitable city and upon its weary grimy battle-fields. She liked
him to fall asleep on one or the other of these mountain-tops. When he
awoke, it would be as from a mountain that he would see the dawn. From
there let him come down to the things that won the day; but at night
back again to things that win life.

They were in their drawing-room, then, as she had taught him to call it,
and she was reading to him. A knock interrupted her. She interrogated
the knock doubtfully to herself for a moment.

"Ashby," she finally said, turning her eyes toward the door, as a
request that he open it.

The janitor of the building handed in a card. The name on the card was
strange to her, and she knew no reason why a stranger should call. Then
a foolish uneasiness attacked her: perhaps this unwelcome visit bore
upon her engagement at the studio. They might not wish her to return;
that little door to a larger income was to be shut in their faces.
Perhaps she had made herself too plain. If only she had done herself a
little more justice in her appearance!