The commissionaire smiled. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. Mere hangers on. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house.
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