I asked the janitor, and
he said the house was not very well built and that the beams and
wainscoting were shrinking."
"Did he say that?" inquired the young man, thinking of the bribes.
"Yes, and I tried to believe him. And one day I thought I heard about one
hundred canaries singing, and I know I did, but that idiot janitor said
they were the sparrows under the eaves. Then one day when your door was
open, and I was coming up the stairway, and it was dark in the entry,
something big and soft flopped across the carpet, and--it being
exceedingly common to scream--I didn't, but managed to get past it, and"--
her violet eyes widened with horror--"do you know what that soft, floppy
thing was? It was an owl!"
He was aware of it; he had managed to secure the escaped bird before her
electric summons could arouse the janitor.
"I called the janitor," she said, "and he came and we searched the entry;
but there was no owl."
He appeared to be greatly impressed; she recognized the sympathy in his
brown eyes.
"That wretched janitor declared I had seen a cat," she resumed; "and I
could not persuade him otherwise. For a week I scarcely dared set foot on
the stairs, but I had to--you see, I live at home and only come to my
studio to paint."
"I thought you lived here," he said, surprised.
"Oh, no. I have my studio--" she hesitated, then smiled. "Everybody makes
fun of me, and I suppose they'll laugh me out of it, but I detest
conventions, and I did hope I had talent for something besides
frivolity.
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