they should perhaps have nothing left—but a point of view.
Helen made a half-dozen acquaintances among the women of the Rembrandt Studios, and in doing so learned a half-dozen tragedies. Each had "had a history"; each had taken refuge in some new belief.
In Number 12 lived a plump and jovial little lady who owned a pet monkey named the Czar. The Czar was the terror of the building. His mistress was not an heroic figure, yet for twenty years she had been toiling to pay the debts of a worthless brother, and so save the family from disgrace.
She was a Christian Scientist.
The Theosophist was a slim maiden lady who did flowers in water colour. Hers was the tragedy of not having been called upon to suffer. All the pathos of protracted girlhood was in that air, as of one who has not arrived, yet is not pursuing, only waiting.
For the owner of Number 2 art meant a faithless husband. She had found consolation in Astrology.
