brooded over the Square. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of many feet, for the doors of the Music Hall had been thrown open, and a crowd of women passed out. A lecture on Dostoievsky was just over. Then a cab came rattling down High Street and stopped at the entrance to a low, irregular structure bearing the inscription, "Rembrandt Studios." From the cab stepped a tall young girl in an extremely well-cut gown. She stood for a minute with her red-brown dress and auburn hair outlined against the dull green ampelopsis that covered the building's front. Her cheeks were flushed. Anne Bradford caught her look of keen interest in the faded brick façade, the battered stone lions that guarded the entrance, and in the preoccupied women passing two by two.
"What is that child doing in Bohemia?" wondered Anne, noticing that her trunk was being carried in. "It is somebody new in search of the ideal life. She ought to know that she cannot enter
